The Lion King: My Name
by Tiger Khan
Summary: A human comes to the Pride Lands in a different, disturbing way. Set in the universe of the Freak, this is the story of a warrior... the warrior of an awesome, evil power. Rated M for gory, brutal violence, including graphic torture.
1. Will You Be My Friend?

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lion King, or any of its characters or events. They are the property of the Walt Disney Company. If I am honored to have Disney representatives read this work and they request that I remove this from the Internet, I shall do so, but can make no guarantees that it has not been saved by a third party. Also, I am only including a disclaimer and copyright on this first chapter. Anyone wishing to view later chapters must agree with the terms of both.

Copyright: All original characters and events are my property. I will allow anyone to use said characters or events however, as long as I am credited and it is not for profit of any kind or business use.

Author's Notes are denoted by parentheses, flashbacks are denoted by asterisks, thoughts are denoted by italicized text, and emphasis is denoted by bold text.

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 1: Will You Be My Friend?

* * *

(You'll have to read The Freak for this story to make sense. It's a mere 111,000 words so far, haha.

This story will have EXTREME depictions of violence and torture. It will be extremely gory. Regardless, I'll be rating this T, because there will not be any sexual intercourse, nor will there be much language.

Also, this is not a self-insertion. At least, I hope not.)

* * *

"I was only nineteen... I didn't want to die..."

The World War II documentary was clicked off, and the tall, lone youth stood up, turning on the lights of his one-room flat.

"_Times have changed."_

He ran a hand over his face, and realized that he hadn't shaved for several days. But it didn't matter.

Life, for him, had too many obstacles for him to care about such a trivial detail.

"_Ever since I was kicked out of my house, things went bad."_

His parents had never loved him. They'd never even given the illusion that they had. And once he turned eighteen... how long ago? ...he couldn't remember when his birthday was.

Regardless, the moment he was legally an adult, his parents had disowned him, and forbade him entry to their home. On an academic level, he couldn't blame them.

"_It's not my fault I don't know how to socialize or show emotion. They didn't raise me to do those things."_

He thought back on the years... painful, hollow memories dominated his mind. Had he ever had a friend? No, he didn't recall that he ever did. No... there was no one on Earth that would remember his name...

Was he ever loved?

The answer to that question was even more obvious.

"_I don't want to die. But I don't want to live, either."_

Life, for him, had lost meaning. He had a job, but he hadn't gone to it for some time now... he just didn't have the desire to do anything but loaf around in his room, thinking.

And he'd arrived at a conclusion.

"_I'd write a suicide note. But I don't know what name to sign it by. My name... I can't remember it. Because I haven't heard it in so long..."_

But the GLOCK 19 that he'd purchased several weeks ago didn't require his name to do its duty.

Inspiration hit the youth, however, and he pulled out an index card, and quickly jotted a single sentence onto it. Stepping out into the cold, damp air of the city that he lived, he racked the slide of the automatic, and concealed it under the old, raggedy hoody that he'd had for years now.

Times Square was a long walk. And he had no money for a taxi. But the trip was worth it.

People were everywhere. Talking, eating... holding hands... being acknowledged as... alive...

He clenched his teeth, closing his eyes. When it came right down to it, it was still hard to do this deed...

But the youth was able to get over his fear by simply remembering the worst times of his life, which was, simply, every day he'd spent alive.

"I don't know where I'm going," he said out loud, but no one stopped; no one cared.

"I don't know. But it's got to be better than this FUCKING PLACE!" he suddenly screamed, and his hand dove into his jacket.

He counted. His weapon had fifteen rounds in it. Fourteen 9mm shots roared into the air, causing people to scream and run for cover, thinking that he was going to hurt them.

That wasn't going to happen. He just didn't give a damn—people could live, people could die... but things would always be the same for him. Whether he killed one other person or a thousand, no one would ever care about him.

But maybe... this would make them care.

The youth put his pistol to his temple, the cold steel of the automatic felt strangely natural, even serene against his skin.

As he predicted, not one person begged him to stop. To put the gun down. They only looked on in wonder, at the shell of a person that he'd become.

But they didn't care.

One last, _final_ gunshot rang out. Blood spurted from the youth's head, and he slumped to the ground.

Dead.

A crumpled-up piece of paper peeked out from his left hand. On it, five simple words were written.

"Will you be my friend?"

* * *

"_Why has Master called us all here? So suddenly?"_ the sabertooth wondered, looking around at his comrades as they waited for the one that had called them there.

The voice came without warning.

"We have our warrior."

* * *

He was falling, falling, far, far down. The wind against his face felt strong enough to rip the very flesh from him.

And soon, it did.

Shrieking, holding himself with hands that were rapidly disintegrating. He howled as the last shreds of skin were torn away from him—

And then, he burst into flame. The pain was incredible. Every fleshy part of his body burned, slowly, in the agonizing heat that he could do nothing to stave off.

And then, suddenly he hit ground.

By now, he was nothing more than a skeleton. But his bones did not break... he was just a skeleton.

The youth looked up, his vision blurred, and looked around.

"_I thought Hell would be hotter."_

The grassy, barren wasteland that he found himself in was surrounded, on all sides, by trees. There was nothing living...

Or so he thought.

He heard a soft, skittering sound from his side. And jumped to his feet.

His terror was understandable. Approaching him was an entire nest of driver ants. Oh, they had no venom. But their vicious, too-strong jaws were visible to him even from where he stood.

He screamed, and tried to run. But the ants were already upon him. The horrible insects smothered him, entering his body, crawling all over him—

"Stop," said a single, commanding voice.

And the ants immediately froze, as if dead. And then, they vanished, turning into dust that the wind quickly carried away.

The youth stood again, looking around for the source of the voice. He wasn't an emotional person... but right now, he was scared.

He could see nothing... but he felt as if something, or someone, was circling him, watching him, judging him.

"Excellent..." the voice grinned.

"...What's excellent?" the young man asked, disinterestedly.

There was no reply for a moment. And when the reply came, it was waves of incredible pain, as intense as the agony he felt when he was falling...

He shrieked, and ran his bony fingers over his body, as if trying to tear the pain away from him—

And just like that, it stopped. The youth gasped, groaning, clutching himself, as if bracing for another assault.

"You had no emotions in your life," the voice said, and the skeleton felt a painful jab of pain.

"I cannot give you any," it continued, "but what I can do... is to make you physically feel... what you should have felt every day of your life..."

The pain was turned on again, for what felt like a much, much longer time. The youth screamed, but that earned him no mercy.

"And so I wonder," the voice said, easing off of the torture for a moment, "how do you feel... towards all the people in your life...? The people that would have made you feel like this, if you were but a little bit weaker? The people that, let us face it... killed you?"

The skeleton groaned, even as he thought on the voice's words. He thought: all those years he'd spent without a friend in the world. All the hate others had for him, because he didn't understand emotions. All the emptiness.

"I... hate them," he growled, panting, getting to his feet.

"Good..." the voice chuckled, then, the widest assortment of extinct animals appeared, walking towards the youth.

But he felt no fear. The only thing he could feel now was a physical manifestation of emotional agony...

"We will help you get revenge... some day. But you must become strong. You must learn to fight. You must do my bidding... because the stronger I become, the stronger you will become... and the more capable of killing you will be..."

The skeleton nodded, coldly, and awaited instruction; the desire to kill... everything... burned bright inside of him.

"Servants," the voice said, causing his followers to perk up, "give our warrior your power..."

They all bowed in unison, and joined paw, talon, and hand. They then started to chant, a low, disturbing sound. The Earth shook, parts of the ground falling out to allow beams of red light to shine from the ground—

* * *

"Usiku, no!" Kovu said, quickly jumping in between the black hyena and the other dark lion, ignoring the heart-wrenching pain he'd felt at the loss of his sister.

The ex-Outlander got the powerful claws that were intended for Tanga, and wrestled Usiku down with the aid of Kiara, Shenzi, T, Banzai, Ed, Sarabi, Nala, and Simba. Indeed—it took all of them. Usiku's rage was intense and pure.

Tanga had lowered himself into a powerful fighting stance, but blink as he saw... something... to the Northeast.

"No..." he gasped, and when Simba looked up, the tan Lion had a similar reaction.

"Where is your warrior?!" the old, dark lion yelled, just an a powerful wave of evil washed over them.

The tan lion's eyes narrowed, even as he braced himself; others were not so lucky, and were knocked over by the intense dark energy that rolled over the lands.

"We don't have one!" the Lion King called back, as a loud, dry howling echoed through every lion and hyena's ears.

"No, you must have one! Where is he?!"

The tan lion was about to speak again, but couldn't.

"_If it was Freak... then we're all doomed."_

"I don't know! We have to leave," Simba called, as the Pride Landers started to huddle next to each another, as to warm their hearts from the coldness that was overtaking the land.

"Father, we have a quick way to get to the Pride Lands. It's over there—" but as soon as Kovu pointed to the east, Simba shook his head.

"No, we can't go there!" he said, as another, more powerful wave of evil hit everyone like a sledgehammer, "we'll have to go to the south!"

"But Daddy," said Kiara, nearly lifted off her feet as she crawled over to her mate, "then we'll have to go through the Lower Plains again... and then through the unexplored lands to the east of the Eastern Volcanoes... and then through the Falme Kindakindakai!" she shuddered at the mention of the land with which the Pride Lands had never managed to achieve real peace with... even now, officially, they were in a very long, very fragile cease fire.

"WE'RE NEVER GOING TO GO THROUGH THE UNEXPLORED LANDS!" Simba yelped, remembering the story his father had told him about the rite-of-passage that he and Scar had made there, "WE'RE GOING TO GO THROUGH THE EASTERN VOLCANOES... EVEN THE HARDSHIPS THERE WILL BE NOTHING COMPARED TO THE HORRORS TO THE SOUTH OF THE FALME!"

"_And we need to get to the Pride Lands quickly. Ironic that the holiest place in the land is but a day's travel, and a river from the place where the Great Spirits... now... have no control... Father... you'll be unable to guide me. Until we defeat this evil alone..."_

"Come on, let's go!" Simba yelled, loping off towards the south, knowing that if they remained so close to the Forbidden Island without the protection that the Pride Lands offered... they'd die.

* * *

The youth, if that's what he could be called, felt himself... with the paws of a lion.

He was still bipedal. But he was tall, at over seven feet. He was as black as Kivuli, Usiku, or Uvuli, and as lithely muscled as Freak.

Yet, his fingers were dexterous. He could manipulate objects as carefully as a human might.

He had a mane. It was crimson red, like that of Mufasa's. But his hair was rough—running an unprotected digit would be tantamount to placing it to an automatic sander.

He wore pants—they were made of the tough skin of a wildebeest, and his belt was fashioned of rhinoceros hide.

He looked at his paws, and flexed them. Instantly, claws shot out—but they were not those of a lion.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" rasped one servant, a deinonychus, tapping his own overlarge claws on the ground.

He retracted his claws, and felt his face. Two large, razor sharp teeth; ideal for cleaving flesh from bone hung out of his mouth.

The sabertooth grinned.

He sniffed at the air, and picked up the scent of everything within three hundred yards. Not so useful for finding prey... but it nullified the stealth capabilities of anything.

His eyes were powerful. He looked at the treeline, six hundred yards away... and counted the fleas on a rat's back.

But he was not invincible.

Not yet.

True, he was an offensive powerhouse. But his bones were not unusually strong. His skin was not impenetrably tough. And he had no other means of defense.

"It matters not," said the voice, sensing the warrior's concern, "you will be able to kill anything that approaches you..."

The youth looked to the east. Laid across the ground were weapons... weapons from every era, every age, every variation. Machineguns, grenades, knives, hatchets, bows and arrows, even slingshots... every tool of death was his for the taking.

"Chose wisely," the voice cautioned, "ammunition doesn't grow on trees."

The warrior merely shrugged, and picked up a familiar weapon... a GLOCK 19.

It felt lighter in his stronger grip, and he noticed, approvingly, that it had been customized: a superior barrel and a lighter trigger would make killing that much easier.

He placed that into a holster, and strapped it onto his belt, along with two extra magazines of thirty-three rounds apiece.

Next, he attached a broad, sharp scimitar-like sword to his back. It was not a long blade, so drawing it quickly would be doable.

Three small, westernized tantos went on his back, above his hip, so that he could draw them and stab, quickly, or switch his grip and throw them in seconds.

A comb-grip pump-action shotgun went next to his sword, in a scabbard, easily accessed with one appendage. He placed six extra shells on a side-saddle, perfect for quick access, and draped a bandolier of shells over his chest.

A short, robust handbow, or one-handed crossbow, sat at his left thigh. It needed no scope, not with his vision, but its integral sights were dead on. It was all but silent—perfect for quiet kills at ranges of up to a quarter mile. A small pouch of arrows wound around his leg, just above the handbow, giving him a dozen or so shots for it.

To his right side, he attacked a powerful .338 Lapua rifle. It hung freely, but the warrior planned for this to be his main arm... he would carry it in his paws most of the time. This one could actually use a scope, and aid his shooting. Perfectly accurate out to over a mile, it would deliver enough power to a target to destroy even a lion... if he aimed carefully.

Four ten-round magazines for the rifle were shortly strapped to the front of his belt.

"I don't have armor," he noted.

"No..." said the voice, "I cannot give you anything but tools of death. We have not won this war yet."

"War?" he asked plainly.

"Yes... but you don't need to worry about that now. All you need to worry about... is fulfilling my every command. I may not be able to contact you directly as much as I'd like... but my servants will be able to.

"...Fine..."

The youth looked back down at the weapons, and attached a solid, sharp hatchet to his left back, and four hand grenades to his chest with the use of a pouch and sling.

"But that's not all..." the voice chuckled darkly, earning some laughter from his servants.

"Touch that tree..."

The youth tilted his head slightly, a mark of the part-animal beast that he'd become, and did so.

"Now... focus on the rage you felt moments ago..."

He stood for a moment. To most outward appearances, he was motionless. But the tightness in his eyes, then slight twist of his lips told all: he was concentrating, hard.

And when the youth looked at the tree again... it was gone. A mere pile of ash on the ground.

A general murmur of approval rolled among the servants, quickly cut off by the voice of their master again.

"You don't need to eat. You don't need to sleep. You don't need to rest. All you need to do... is kill."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"...What's my name?"

"...Your job is to bring death wherever I order you to. Hence... from now on... that will be your name. Death. Kifo."

"Kifo..." the warrior repeated, then bowed down.

"I shall bring meaning to my name... Master..." he said, not raising his head.

The voice chuckled, and for a second, Kifo felt as if a warm, _powerful_ hand had been placed on his shoulder.

"And who knows, warrior," the voice said, starting to trail off, "maybe, some day... you will even earn a friend..."

* * *

(I lied. al-Mujahid out.)


	2. I Love My Job

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 2: I Love My Job

* * *

(For the sake of tradition, here is a quick author's note. Read TLK The Freak to Chapter 10, and of course, Chapter 1 of My Name. This chapter is meant to be read alongside Chapter 11 of The Freak.

Also, remember, this story will have a lot of bad language—Kifo is not a nice guy. Torture and violence below.)

* * *

"Too slow," panted Simba, "we're going to go over the Western Volcanoes. If we don't get to the Pride Lands soon, then who knows what might happen."

Uvuli bit her tongue. She'd hoped that f they went to the south fast enough, maybe, just maybe... they'd be able to find Freak.

"But Daddy," said Kiara, "the Western Volcanoes are a thousand times as dangerous as their siblings to the east. Are you sure—"

"There's no choice, said Tanga; the old lion managed to keep up without difficulty, even though he was painfully aware of the daggers being shot into his back by Usiku, "young one... do you even know of the holiness of the Pride Lands? Particularly, of the holiness of Pride Rock?"

(Yes, that is also foreshadowing, although to a future fanfiction.)

Kiara paused, then shook her head, looking at her father suspiciously.

"I'll explain later. The point is, if we don't get to the Pride Lands _soon_... well, we've got to get there as quickly as we can. Uvuli!" the Lion King called, and the black cub raced up to his side.

"Tell me... do you smell anything? To the north east, from the Forbidden Island...I know that it should be out of range. But do you smell anything...?"

She paused for a moment, closing her eyes in concentration, even slowing down a little.

"...Kind of. ...Why?" she asked suspiciously, then gasped at the stark shade of white Simba, Sarabi, Nala, and Tanga turned.

* * *

"What's happening?" Kifo asked, as smoke danced from his "body", "why am I smoking?"

A large vulture flapped over, soot falling everywhere. This being was the most freshly deceased of the followers, and, in fact, had been killed by the one... that Kifo would soon come to hate as his mortal enemy.

"It's because of the evil of this land... it's too much for you to be here for long. It is akin to creating two ripples in a pond, directed at one another... there is, at first, disturbance. And then, destruction. So, Kifo... you have to leave. Now," the vulture said coolly.

"...Okay..." Kifo shrugged, and coldly turned to walk to the west, sensing, for some reason, that going to the east just wasn't safe yet... the aura of the Pride Landers hadn't quite fallen from that land, yet.

"Is there anything I gotta do before one of you guys gives me a mission?" he asked without pausing.

"Indeed," rasped a pterodactyl, "kill..."

The warrior walked on... a cruel, dark smile twisting across his face.

"Can do."

* * *

Swimming was something that Kifo had never learned to do in his life, and he wasn't about to start now. So the warrior allowed himself to fall right to the bottom of the river that isolated the Forbidden Island from the rest of the world... before he realized that there was no bottom.

He felt a bit of concern. He had no idea where this river might take him—but it would certainly throw a wrench into his Master's plans, if he wasn't there to fulfill the will of—his Master. (no, I'm not going to tell you his name yet.)

So, reluctantly, he allowed his weapons to float freely, and he pumped his arms, and legs, using his crossbred tail to guide his path.. Shortly, he was moving fairly quickly, and only an hour later, he reached land.

Here, to the north of the Bloody Shadows, the terrain was barren. Not hot, like the Desert, but sandy, lifeless... rocklike. There were some hills, and some random, dry trees... but nothing really _alive._

Kifo felt at home.

Something caught his eye—it was... a statue? No, that made no sense at all—why would there be a statue here?

The warrior walked right up to it, his breath coming out in snarls due to the unnatural nature of his face. It was a statue of a monkey. A mandrill.

He smirked horribly, and decided to whet his appetite for death with destruction. He reached down with one furred, scaled appendage, and raised his rifle. Kifo racked a round into the chamber and found that he had enough strength to hold it in one paw, easily, and level it at the statue's skull.

Grinning ferociously, maliciously, he pulled the trigger.

Two thunderous roars were heard—the first, of the gunshot, and the second, of the bullet striking the statue, and exploding.

The monkey stood strong, however, unharmed, and Kifo swore as he groaned, picking himself up from the ground, checking himself for injuries... that he heard peals of crazy laughter.

"Fuckin' waste of a bullet," Kifo snarled, glaring at the statue—he considered kicking it, but thought better of it, and instead, decided to seek out something _living_ to kill.

* * *

He knew, instinctively, that there was nothing living in the Bloody Shadows. At least, nothing living worth killing. So the warrior headed to the west...

For days and days, and yes, nights, he walked. With each step, his goal became clearer, and the more he realized he would enjoy his job... every time his foot met the ground, a soft, crackling sound could be heard as the very Earth died.

And then, all at once, Kifo stopped.

It was grazing season, and the Western Grasslands were rife with many herds of gazelle, wildebeest and many, many more herbivores. Gathered here without the threat of predators, they gorged themselves, always careful to keep their females well guarded, just in case.

Kifo realized that the will of his Master must have been to kill every being in the land through starvation—that's why there was only about one female for every ten males. And even where he stood, over a mile away, he could already see males fight each another, sometimes to the death, for the right to mate.

After all, the right to continue one's life through offspring is a hard-won freedom.

"Stupid motherfuckers, killing each another over a little bit of pussy," Kifo said to himself conversationally as he unslung his rifle, adjusting the stock and scope for accurate, long-range shooting, "they're gonna learn that the only one around here that's gonna be doing the killing... is me," he grinned savagely, laying down on his belly as he sighted on his target...

* * *

The stronger, more experienced gazelle ducked under the frontal assault, then, positioned his sharp, deadly horns, and gave his head a deft toss.

The next thing anyone knew, his foe's neck was penetrated, and pinned, even as it bled; the young hothead's life slowly flowing away.

But the victor hardly registered this—his goal was won, and he gave his head another toss, to lead her away from the herd at large, to a quiet area under a tree...

* * *

"You know what..." the warrior smirked terribly, "I'm gonna have me some fun," he growled, standing up and allowing his rifle to hang freely at his side.

The gazelles were totally secure—they felt that here, they were untouchable by predators. And the disappearance of their females had ended so long ago, at least, that's what it seemed like, that they felt completely untouchable.

It was easy for Kifo to stalk over to them. He sneered terribly, as their mating began, and considered for a moment... how best to kill his enemies? Yes—his enemies. Anything living was his enemy.

The male gazelle panted as he continued his work. The female looked up at the one that, hopefully, would give her offspring and continue the life of the pride—

And then her eyes widened, as a long, metal-tipped arrow protruded from its skull. Impossibly, the male's motions continued post-martum as he twitched automatically, and she struggled to get free, her hooves kicking the dead gazelle to break free.

And then, she froze as she saw the... demon stalk towards her. This gazelle was an old soul; her consciousness was her own, yes, but when the Great Spirits had given her body life, they'd sent down some of the essence of long-dead beings as well as her own personal soul... and so, reacting in the terror that had been ingrained into one part of her, she started to dash away—

But the female gazelle didn't get far. Kifo drew the hatchet, and flipped it around. He then launched it through the air, his left arm's muscled rippling as the weapon arced towards its target.

Second later, the gazelle dropped, minus one foot. Still, she was brave enough to fight through her tears of pain and try to drag herself to the herd.

It was useless. She felt a powerful, crushing foot stamp down on her chest, squashing half the breath from her lungs. And then, she felt another foot drop onto her face... and she opened her eyes to see her bloodied, dismembered hoof clatter to the ground.

Kifo's unnatural face grinned again, and he reached onto his right hip for a knife.

"Master said I don't have to eat. But he never said I couldn't..."

The gazelle, somehow, seemed to understand her assailant's words, and struggled harder. But there was no hope for her at all, and just to make doubly sure, the warrior sat down on top of her, straddling her.

As his weight cracked two of her ribs, the gazelle's mentality changed. She resigned herself to her fate, and decided to hurt her aggressor as much as she could before she went down. So her hoof lashed out, striking him in the chest, hard.

Kifo grunted, and held her down using his paws. He then looked down to see that a dark bruise was spreading across his chest.

His nasty expression darkened even more as he looked up at the gazelle, and she felt cold, icy panic spread across her as the demon's eyes met hers. Kifo's scaled, clawed paw reached out towards her, causing to cringe in fear before it stroked across her ribs, leaving trails of smoke as it did.

"That hurt, bitch," he said conversationally, and the gazelle winced in pain before she looked at her own flesh, to see it melting away from where he touched her.

Gazelles can't scream. But it was very, very easy for Kifo to see, and delight in the way her eyes rolled around in their sockets, looking for an escape to the pain. But his expression fell again, as he grew bored, and placed his appendage on her again, and concentrated.

He felt rage and hate flow through him. He thought of all the times people had snubbed him, ignored him, written him off... how much he hated every being that lived... how badly he wanted to end them all...

The demon then suddenly wrenched his paw away from her, and opened his eyes to look analytically at his handiwork.

She was a wreck. The gazelle had had a healthy amount of muscle and fat before she'd met the demon, but now... her fur hung off of her loosely, flapping slightly in the breeze. Her eyes were small, bloodshot, and pained; and worst of all, her bones were so fragile that they broke when she continued to struggle; ash falling to the ground to collect into small, dark clouds.

"Cool," the warrior smirked, and picked up his knife again.

The gazelle was forced to watch as Kifo took up a saggy handful of the fur near her belly, and slowly, lovingly slid the blade across it. Pain crisscrossed through her abdomen as blood spilled from the long, thin cut, and the soft tissue under her skin was exposed to the elements, but more importantly, to the demon.

He leaned in, and lapped the blood up, licking his lips with his painfully scratchy tongue, thinking to himself.

"Not bad, not bad," he grinned darkly at the animal, before ripping her fur in two with his paws, "you've whetted my appetite..."

There was then a sickly tearing, ripping sound as the demon reached into the gazelle's abdomen and tore away a large chunk of her flesh with his sharp, strong teeth. He pulled his head out, tossing it in his mouth as he sliced it into edible chunks, swallowing it as blood stained his lips, and the gazelle tried to struggle again, feebly, uselessly.

"Tasty..." he grinned, and for the gazelle, the nest few minutes were pure Hell, as she was forced to see, hear, and feel the demon eat her while she still clung to life.

Kifo was finished with his meal, but noticed that the gazelle's suffering could be prolonged... he allowed the useless flaps of her skin to sag down, protecting her from infection so that he could really bring the pain.

The demon took his knife int his paw again, then shifted himself to scoot up to the gazelle's face. She recoiled at that, he was terrifying enough to look at that she closed her eyes tightly.

"Aww, now, we can't have that... look me in the eyes, bitch," he demanded with a growl, but she defiantly kept her eyes tightly shut.

"Fine. I'll make you," Kifo snarled, and then held his weapon's blade itself in his claws.

He leaned in, and, with surgical precision, sliced through the poor animal's eyelides. She struggled again, feebly, but there was absolutely no hope at all. And then, the demon took those eyelids, and, ripping them free, tossed them into his mouth.

"Eh... not bad," he shrugged, and smiled, as if kindly at the gazelle, "see... I'm not so bad, am I?... ...Bitch..." Kifo's face suddenly twisted inexplicably, causing the animal to cringe in horror, "I am going to kill you _slowly_..."

He spent the next ten minutes slowly skinning the gazelle. He used his claws to slice her, so that jolts of pain danced like fire over her, then ripped, tore, and pulled her skin away, so that the pain rolled over her in waves.

Then, suddenly, the only skin left on the gazelle was on her face...

"Gonna have to be gentle here..." the demon muttered to himself, and even as flies started to feed on her flesh direction, he carefully started to dissect her skin from around her horns, then ears, then eyes...

She looked up at him, begging for death—the bleeding in her gut had long since stopped, and she wouldn't die until she literally rotted into nothingness.

But there was no respite. Kifo mercilessly ripped the skin from her in one motion, and grinned at his handiwork.

Her red meat, fat, and some bones were visible. Flies and other insects were starting to pile on, eating away at her flesh, even laying eggs already.

To keep himself occupied while he thought of how to finally dispatch the gazelle, Kifo started to beat her; pounding her with his fists, breaking bones and bruising flesh. The gazelle's entire body bucked with each blow as her organs were only barely alive, much to her amazement and horror.

Then, intuition struck the warrior.

He looked around on the grassy plain until he found a long, tough blade of grass, and severed it at the base. Out of malice, he held the ground for a moment and concentrated hard, so that for at least ten feet in all directions, the grass started to wither and die...

The demon then reached into his pouch and withdrew a grenade. He carefully tied one end of the grass around the pin, then the other to the root of the tree. Then, Kifo reached into the gazelle's ribcage as she whimpered, and positioned the explosive so that it stuck tight.

Unfortunately, he felt something break, and as he took his paw out, it was covered in blood. He'd ruptured something, and the gazelle managed to smirk at him—she only had a few seconds left.

But Kifo grinned back, even more horribly. A few seconds were enough...

The warrior lifted the gazelle onto his back, tensing his muscles...

* * *

The herd grazed on, content in the knowledge that the male that had earned the right to mate was strong, and would hopefully sire a healthy calf. They felt safe, in the quiet serenity of the Western Grasslands, and knew that here, they were invincible—

Suddenly, the entire herd looked up, then scattered as one of their own fell down, as if from the sky.

They didn't go far, however, and watched as she hit the ground, then bounced once.

Then, the herd at large crowded around the female gazelle, horrified and disgusted at what had happened to one of the most important members of their herd...

But she shook her head desperately once, before dying, warning them away... the bounce had shaken lose the handle of the grenade, and too late, the herd heard the soft _fizz_ of the fuse burning—

Some tried to run, but they were all close enough to be caught in or at least damaged by the thunderous crack that sent birds skyward for miles around, and made at least a dozen nearby herds look up, nervously.

Gore splattered everywhere; cooked, holey chunks of gazelle meat rolled around for a few long seconds as the thick, black plume of smoke that the grenade had created slowly reached to the sky, mushrooming out to rain dust and debris to the ground.

A few gazelle had managed to survive, though none were uninjured... some crawled away with three legs, two legs, or one, and some were still unconscious.

But then, their attention was grabbed by a horrible, blood-curdling roar. They looked up, and saw a being that could only be described as demonic. Blood dripped from his face and paws, and he was holding long, thin instruments that even the gazelles knew, were meant to harm.

Kifo methodically walked around, and sliced open each downed animal's throat. He ignored their unspoken pleas, occasionally stamping down on them if they annoyed him by drawing away. Fifteen shots later, he ejected his empty magazine... and it vanished into nothingness.

"No evidence... nice..." the warrior grinned, then looked around in glee at the pain and death he'd solely been responsible for.

"I love my job."

* * *

Now, the warrior walked to the south... he knew, instinctively, that his Master had no overwhelming need for him, and that if that great being did... Kifo would be told.

He had no idea what he'd find in this area of the world... but nevertheless, he was surprised as he found a huge lake, easily the size of the Forbidden Island. It was many, many days travel from the Desert, and it was no wonder that it had never been found—it was perfectly still, and lifeless.

After the massacre in the Grasslands, which the Great Spirits were only now becoming aware of, Kifo had felt his power grow—he was stronger, faster, deadlier. And with his power, the warrior had felt his hate for all life grow...

There were only a few cranes, and some fish wallowing around in the lake. Out of sheer curiosity and boredom, the demon decided to see if there was anything larger, perhaps, in the deeper part of the lake.

"_It's fortunate that creatures shy away from me automatically... down there, only my handbow, grenades, sword, and knives will be of any use..."_

Kifo didn't think much more after that—he just plunged into the lake, jumping high into the air, then diving into it headfirst.

The chilly water ht him like a sledgehammer, and soon, Kifo could see why it was so cold. The lake, from the surface, looked strangely dark—and that was because even the demon's eyes could see no bottom in it.

"_I wonder..."_ he thought, and swam deeper down, thanking his Master for not making him dependent on oxygen.

At first, he'd vaguely recognized the schools of small fish that passed him. But within minutes, he found himself looking upon creatures that he'd only seen on television.

"_I thought that squid weren't supposed to be venomous,"_ he thought...

It didn't make sense. It didn't make any sense at all. But what the warrior saw was, in the same manner that the Great Spirits had no knowledge or control of the goings on in the Forbidden Island, completely unknown to science.

The assaulted animal was about five inches in diameter, yet over six feet long. Its skinny, spaghetti-like tentacles trailed lazily behind it; their color a dangerous shade of purple. The animal itself clearly wasn't an aggressive creature: when the smallish shark that jerked, moments before, to avoid Kifo started to swim towards it, the squid merely siphoned away, its many arms trailing lazily behind it.

It was retreating, though not in a passive form. It was more like the squid was saying that it didn't want to fight... but if it had to, it would win.

"_Fuckin' idiot. If you get the chance, kill your enemies before they know you're a threat. I shoulda done that when I was alive,"_ Kifo thought savagely, with half a mind to kill the squid for being a fool, then to kill the shark just because.

But the warrior's thought was abruptly cut off when the shark strayed a bit too close, and brushed his snout against the hunted animal's tentacle—

It dropped as if it had been shot, and didn't come back. Kifo stopped where he was, and treaded water, watching the animal sink slowly to the bottom of the lake, wherever it was...

Then, he looked up to see that the squid was, incredibly, looking back at him.

Oh, it was afraid of the warrior, there was no doubt about that. But it was looking at him anyway, in the same manner that a man does at a lion, just before that huge, mighty paw comes to strike it down.

Kifo could swear he could understand what the squid seemed to ask him, as its tentacles danced about in an attempt to communicate.

"_Why do you not fight like me? Why do you kill... when killing can be avoided?"_

The warrior reached over his back for his sword, and the mollusk couldn't dodge the blade as it cleaved through the water, then its body in a single, almost slow arc.

"_Because it's the only thing I can do."_

"_...And because I love it."_

* * *

(Believe it or not, when I wrote Reflections, I didn't remember anything about the scene in TLK when Simba looks into the pond as directed by Rafiki.)

He swam on... there were no ways to the surface that he could see. And yet, though the tunnel he found himself in was large enough to accommodate a aircraft carrier, if it was submersible, he didn't encounter another creature.

Finally, Kifo came to an opening that was _just_ big enough for him to squeeze through.

The warrior broke surface, and his two paws found land before he dragged himself up—

...Into a jungle.

Just in front of him, two lizards were lapping at the water, as if totally unaware of the demon's presence. But then they both froze up, and scurried away, out of sight, into a bush.

Kifo didn't both pursuing them, and got to his feet.

He stood there for a moment, shaking himself, and his weapons dry. Satisfied that they were in working order, he got his rifle into his paws again, feeling vaguely threatened in the thick, dark forest.

He couldn't tell how he knew... but he knew, somehow, that there was something here. Something that shouldn't be here.

And then, the loud click-clacking sounds coming from the mouth of a cave to his east made his eyes narrow.

"_I should have brought a flashlight,"_ he seethed, hardly able to see in the night, moonlight blotted out by the trees.

But then, he felt some muscles in his eyes automatically flex, and a second later, he was seeing in the darkness as well as he did in the light.

"_Thank you, Master,"_ he said to himself, looking skyward gratefully, before shouldering his rifle and walking into the cave.

To his right were two skeletons. The biggest one was a bit smaller than the skeleton of an average lion. And it was obvious that the other one... was just a cub. Probably just a newborn.

Kifo raised a clawed foot, considering smashing them both into dust... but he didn't. Instead, the warrior's harsh, determined expression changed, and he concentrated.

He detected the... not the souls, more of the _essence_ of these bones. He could tell... that they were just like him. The same tendencies to violence... just the lack of power to rock the world with their wrath.

The way he would.

The demon looked at the skeletons for a second longer, until the click-clacking sounds became louder,and his head jerked up.

The cave gave way into a huge, gigantic opening, like a grotto. In the middle of it, there was a lake... and even from where he stood, Kifo could tell that this one had no bottom, either. The smell, the complete stillness of it...

But whatever was making that maddening skittering, clattering sound wasn't still.

Kifo walked a little closer, and froze.

He didn't see anything... but he smelled his enemy.

"_This motherfucker would taste real good with some lemon and tartar sauce."_

The warrior's expression hardened, and he detached his rifle, allowing it to fall to the ground. It wouldn't help him now.

He looked, hard, but quickly gave up. His master wasn't yet powerful enough to allow him to see in any spectrums besides visible ones. And though his sense of smell was powerful, it could only detect things—not point the demon to their location. He wasn't yet experienced with it enough for that to happen.

But he knew that his enemy was close, and there could be no retreat.

He heard the softest of a click—whatever it was, it was trying to get away.

"_I don't blame you."_

Kifo then tried something... he allowed the darkness inside him to grow, and grow, and then unleashed it. But instead of the way he'd reduced the tree to ash or tortured the gazelle, he didn't give it a specific target—he allowed it to roll through the cavern slowly, maliciously.

He smirked, sensing his prey's discomfort grow by the second. It was trying to hold out the assault, but that couldn't last for long.

And then, he hurried a harried skittering, and in a second, his shotgun was out.

He pumped it once, chambering a round, and centered its ghost sights on the center of where he heard the skittering coming from. Then, the weapon roared. Six heavy lead balls were belched out as a long tongue of flame spat from the weapon. Smoke clouded Kifo's vision as the projectiles met flesh.

The demon saw a spurt of blood, and then his eyes widened as he was shaken—his enemy fell, and the resulting thud made Kifo fall to the ground.

The skittering continued, but his prey, whatever it was, wasn't getting anywhere. Kifo saw blood spilling from midair... and understood.

"_It's invisible."_

He fired the shotgun twice more, randomly, and his expression steeled. The shot struck flesh... on opposite sides of the cave.

"_I'm not the only one here that's strong,"_ Kifo noted, as he dived to the side, dodging a bloody claw that gouged a deep hole into the ground, _"I'm just the strongest,"_ he sneered, climbing up the claw to stab at his enemy—

* * *

Kifo felt his sword, testing its strength with his own hand. It held—it was a powerful blade.

Even though he'd stabbed hie enemy over a hundred times; its steel clashing against the chitinous armor of his opponent, it held. It hadn't even cracked.

But then, it wasn't a superweapon—it wasn't quite long enough to really reach to the heart of the problem—in other words, the heart of the gigantic crustacean that he'd fought.

And so it still lived. Every now and then, the demon would hear an exhausted, desperate squirming sound. He'd grin—the stupid crab was trying to move muscles in limbs that were no longer attached to it.

"I once saw a show," he said conversationally, cleaning his sword with his paw; wiping its sharp blade until it was bloodless before sheathing it, "about these hornets, see. They get born inside of a spider... and eat it from the inside out."

As the warrior approached his defeated enemy, it cringed away. And although Kifo's fallen enemies always did, he always _loved_ that palatable sense of terror they exuded at that moment.

"I always liked crabcake," he said coldly.

As the demon stalked closer, his prey's increasing, yet hopeless struggles ceased to amuse him. So, again, he allowed rage to twist across his face and soul..

But this time, there was a physical reaction to his hate. Dark wisps of smoke seemed to travel from Kifo's outstretched fingertips. They lolled through the air, maliciously, stretching straight towards the crab, where they seemed to collect...

And then, all at once, the entire upper section of what remained of its limb turned to ash, and fell away. That part of its body was just too thick for Kifo to cut through—with his sword.

"_But me... who I am, what I am, and who made me this way,"_ he thought, taking a moment to look skywards, to his Master, _"that's just as deadly of a weapon. Even more so than anything made of steel."_

"_I think I get it,"_ Kifo though, starting to slice up chunks of the crab's flesh, shoveling it into his mouth with his paws, _"the more pain I cause, the more death I bring to the world... the stronger I become. And the stronger Master becomes. The more prepared I become to do his bidding, and the more prepared he becomes to work for his goal... whatever it is. And then,"_ he took a particularly savage bite out of his still-warm enemy, _"I _will_ have my revenge."_

* * *

(Five reviews to go on. If I were to write a Balto fanfic, how many of you guys would read it? I had a good idea today, and unlike the way I started The Freak as just a random shot in the dark (oops, shouldn't have admitted that), I have a vague storyline in mind for this one. So, what do you say? Remember to review, because this is al-Mujahid, hoping to see you soon.)


	3. Competitors I: Bogged Down

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 3: Competitors I: Bogged Down

* * *

(For now, my upcoming Balto fanfiction is on the backburner. I'll wait for people to stop pestering me to write Keitaro: Yakuza stories before I start it.

This story has, thus far, been senseless violence. Well... that's about to change. Ever wondered about Kifo, the person, not Kifo, the warrior?)

* * *

All that remained of his enemy now were empty shells. Like the refuse of some great feast, they lay, a hollow reminder of the huge, powerful animal that had once lived in them.

Kifo remained in the cave, for a moment, sitting, nibbling the last bits of meat from one of the chitinous plates that had so completely failed to protect its owner.

He then tossed it into the lake... and then, with a dark, terrifying glare, reached out with his mind... and managed to shove the rest back into the watery depths from where they'd come.

"_I am strong."_

The demon's face flickered into a smile before his eyes widened. His Master was calling, he was sure of it.

And so he dashed out of the Cave of the Freaks, as it was known in the Jungle, and got to his knees outside, lowering his head to the ground in submission of the being that was going to make his revenge possible.

"There's no need for all that," said a raspy, dry voice, and the warrior looked up to see the soot-emitting vulture flap down, landing on a nearby branch.

Regardless, Kifo remained on one knee, though he raised his head to speak.

"Do I have a real mission yet?" he asked, pawing at his rifle longingly.

The vulture grinned his horrible, beaky grin.

"Indeed," the avian said, clouds of ash and smoke flowing from his throat into the atmosphere... even from where he kneeled, Kifo could smell a burnt, acrid smell.

"But first... tell me, warrior. Have you felt yourself become stronger since you left the Forbidden Island? We, the Followers of our Master have heard tales... tales that lead us to the conclusion that our Warrior has been busy. Tell me... have you gained any powers in your endless quest to kill?"

Kifo smirked darkly, and the vulture, an evil being himself, felt... cold.

"Yeah... Master showed me how to reduce things to ash by touching them. Well... it's slower, and weaker. But I can kind of do it... without touching things. Let me show you..."

Kifo's eyes closed as he reached out with his paw, fingers outstretched. The vulture could see deep, black hate twist across his face, and could _feel_ the anger, rage, and... emptiness... in the warrior grow, and grow, before it physically manifested itself into wisps of smoke that danced through the air, collecting on a nearby tree...

The huge plant didn't collapse, or vanish into ash. But it did look unhealthy... sort of like it had ben scorched from the inside out. The vulture flapped up, managing to hover in place—he'd seen the small family of dirty brown and gray sparrows take refuge in one of the knots of the tree, hiding from the demon. But as he looked into that burned, smoke-ridden hole... all he saw was skeletons. Skeletons, and mangy, beaten feathers... and the stench of young, displaced souls, looking for their home in the next world.

The vulture glided down, and flapped to a halt on another branch... before it snapped off, and he landed on the ground.

"Impressive..." he said arrogantly, to hide the awe, and, yes, fear that he felt for the warrior's accomplishment.

"_Master couldn't possibly have foreseen this. It is fortunate that the Warrior is so loyal to Master... because if he were to strike out on his own, I don't know if Master would be able to stop him..."_

"So—your mission," the avian suddenly said brusquely, so that Kifo wouldn't suspect anything, "unfortunately... our Master isn't the only one in this world with big plans. And he's also not the only one willing to do what's necessary to get things done."

Kifo nodded, understanding... yet failing to notice that if that was the case, there was, effectually, no difference between his Master, and this as-yet unknown foe.

"You mission will take you to a land far, far away..."

* * *

"_We don't know who's leading them."_

Kifo's taloned feet clomped across the environment, quickly, as he jogged to the East.

"_Go over the Eastern Volcanoes... through the Unexplored Regions... past the Falme Kindakindakai... and then, to the northeast you will find a desert. And then, a forest... and in that forest, you shall find your enemies."_

"_They are monkeys... but different. We have little information about them at this time. So keep your guard up, Warrior... these foes will not be as susceptible to evil as your previous enemies were."_

"_Do not underestimate enemies of our Master..."_

By now, he was at the peak of the Eastern Volcano range. He looked around... the ground was solid.

Barely.

It would hold him, if he moved quickly.

"_Quick movement's the only kind I can afford,"_ he thought to himself, dashing over the semi-liquid surface, feeling it flex with every step he took, _"after all... Master has entrusted me with a mission..."_

Just as Kifo hopped off of the hot rock, a crack was heard behind him... and he grinned, running and sliding down the side of the Volcanos, as lava chased after him...

* * *

He skidded to a halt later. In front of him lay the Unexplored Regions... and even the warrior felt a moment of concern as he took a step into a meadow of grass... with blades taller than he was.

The grass made the demon feel small, yes. But what made him feel even smaller was the gasping, hissing, clicking sound that he seemed to be approaching. Or rather, what was making it.

The warrior froze.

As he pawed for his rifle, not daring to take his eyes off the creature.

It was feeding on... something, something that the warrior didn't even care to identify.

Kifo raised his .338, but didn't dare fire.

"_I don't think this'll even hurt it."_

The warrior slowly started to back away... but then, with a clicking, the huge, ten-foot tall being raised its head. Long, feeler-like antennae twitched towards him, lashing through the air, as if trying to figure out just what it was looking at.

Kifo felt himself almost seize up, but then forced himself to calm. In this world, he would be the one _causing_ fear, not feeling its horrible effects.

And so he raised his paw, and did the same thing he'd done in his most recent battle. But this time, his goal wasn't to expose his foe... but rather to deter it.

He concentrated hard, allowing those familiar, black wisps of smoke to emanate as if straight from his blackened soul into the air. But the demon watched in horror, as the cockroach continued to stare at him, completely unaffected.

"Not good..." he muttered, then lowered his rifle.

Kifo's right paw came up with his sword, and his left paw came up with a grenade. Though the .338 would blast right through the cockroach from one end to the other, its bullet was just too small to do any real damage to one of the hardiest creatures on Earth. His only real hope of killing it was to cut a hole in it, then shove a live grenade down into it, and blow it up.

Or, he could retreat.

It wasn't the demon's nature to run from an opportunity to harm, to kill. And yet, his job was to kill.. and he couldn't do his job if he was dead. So the warrior backed away, slowly, cautiously, praying to his Master that the accursed insect wouldn't follow.

At first, it didn't. But then, it's antennae twitched towards the demon... and it took a single step towards him.

Kifo froze, and weighed his options. He had two basic choices: retreat, or use the hack-and-explode technique that he'd thought up. Neither of which was as foolproof as he wanted for his manner of fighting to be.

Unacceptable. There had to be something else...

The demon then tried to do something else. Thus far, he'd used only his deep feelings of hate and cold, harsh, darkness to fight his enemies. But he'd learned that he did have another emotion.

Anger.

And anger could conceivably manifest itself in many ways. So it was anger, not vague hate that would defeat this enemy...

As the cockroach approached, Kifo didn't close his eyes and concentrate. His lips blossomed apart into a terrible, gruesome snarl; teeth gnashing against each another in rage. Then he sliced his sword through the air—

...and grinned.

The cockroach stopped dead in its tracks, then scurried off. And as the demon sniffed the air with his hellish, unnatural nose, he noted that it seemed to be burning... from the inside out.

"_I knew that I wasn't that weak,"_ the warrior thought, almost proudly, stowing his grenade, but keeping his sword and handbow in his paws—he figured that if he could influence the effects his sword had on the world, he could do the same to a fired bolt.

"_But still... that was just one cockroach. And the Unexplored Regions is a big place,"_ he thought, starting to jog again, albeit cautiously through the strange, grassy jungle, _"there are gonna be things here tougher than that. Much, much tougher."_

He suddenly grew angry, and slashed at the six foot tall grass that impeded his view and his progress through the plain that he traveled through. For a hundred feet in front of him, the blades fell, only to be squashed into the dirt by his feet as he moved on.

"_Master's given me a mission. I can't afford to get bogged _dow—"

Kifo suddenly roared, and fired a bolt into the gurgling, muddy pit that he'd somehow missed and fallen into. He heard a deep rumble of pain, and cursed, struggling to get out of it it. But something seemed to hold him back, and his eyes narrowed.

"_I wasn't stupid. There really was grass here. It's a trap. And whatever's pulling me back... fuck, it feels sticky,"_ he growled, managing to get a leg free.

Kifo then froze, and managed to call on some hate to rot away the gooey, strong, web-like material that covered his foot.

"_As if big-ass cockroaches weren't enough. Now I gotta face big-ass spiders."_

The demon roared again, and his handbow dislodged itself form his grip, landing several yards away. He barely managed to keep his sword and grab onto dry land as he was dragged deeper and deeper, down into the muddy hole.

He cursed—his nostrils scented his enemy. It was, as he'd assumed, enormous. At least ten feet from tip to tip. And yet, this arachnid was underground, in the mud.

"_It's got to be breathing some how. Maybe another trap-door?"_

Kifo's emotions, his guns, his grenades, and his blades weren't his only weapons. His dark, twisted, yet deeply, horrifyingly intelligent mind, that allowed him to think in even such a dire situation was his true trump card.

And he smirked. Indeed, ten yards away, he saw the ground shift. The spider was smart—it wasn't going to leave a straight shot down into its mouth, or its nose, or whatever sick breathing organ it used.

However, the demon was smarter.

He needed a way to force the spider to choke on some mud, that way, it would have a need to take in a deep, long breath. And with that air, it would receive a grenade...

So he forced himself to calm, close his eyes, even as the beast yanked him further into the muck, his arms tearing down the very ground he held on to.

Then, the warrior's eyes opened, and he lashed out with his feet. A torrent of mud suddenly became more watery, and poured downwards. He felt the arachnid's grip loosen, and looked up, priming a grenade to see that patch of land shift again—

The explosive fell into the hole, and Kifo sniffed hard. It's fuse had been lit—good. It was going off.

The warrior braced himself, as the spider began to pull again, and was thrown five feet into the air as the grenade exploded.

Mud, and thick, dirty hair, along with all manner of body parts sloshed onto the plain around him. The warrior swallowed, feeling some of the matter that had found its way into his maw slide down his throat.

"...Shit..." he swore, stumbling to his feet, looking for his handbow, "talk about getting bogged down."

"_That's two battles I almost lost... in a row,"_ he cursed, standing, placing his paws on his hips, overlooking the Unexplored Regions, _"If I run into any more serious opposition... it's only gonna be a matter of time before I really am killed. And then, I can't have my revenge..."_

The warrior moved, slowly, and sat down at the base of a tree, careful not to mar it with his evil too much.

"_I gotta learn how to live in this fuckin' place in order to survive it. Because I can't do the bidding of my Master when I'm dead."_

* * *

The warrior's eyes narrowed, and he ducked behind another tree. He'd changed over the past few days. Not physically—more like mentally. He no longer held the illusion of invincibility. He knew that he could be defeated, and the only thing that stopped him from being killed was himself.

He was still confident, however, and never one to back down from a fight. In fact, he'd done the opposite of that for the past days. He'd sought out enemies, stalked them, learned their weaknesses, then engaged and defeated them. His foes had become stronger and stronger... and because he beat them, each and every time, so did he.

And that wasn't all. Kifo was starting to remember... his life.

It was never much. Just flashes of memories, or certain sounds, or smells, or tastes... but never feelings. No, he'd never had those until his Master gave them to him.

But there were things that he could do for himself, now. Each day, he'd try out a different physical attack. He didn't use his rifle much, usually, it was his hatchet, knives, or sword. And each day, he'd try out a different emotion-based assault. And he was improving.

The bird lumbered by. It was flightless, but that didn't make it any less deadly than its flying brothers. It's talons were at least a foot long, and its beak was powerful enough to sever limbs with ease. And it was cautious, and smart.

Killing it without cheating and using his rifle or a grenade would be hard.

But doable.

"_I fuckin' hope that the desert and the forest aren't as inhospitable as this hellhole,"_ Kifo thought, before launching himself at his prey.

He managed to wrap himself around its neck, just below its head. That was good, it couldn't bite him. But those talons were still dangerous.

The demon growled, and slid down, kneeling on the avian's feathered back, holding onto it with one paw.

Birds that he'd known in his life had two legs, and three talons on each foot. With only two joints per leg, they weren't overly flexible.

However, this one was different. It had four legs, still with three talons each... but each leg had so many joints that employing a locking or breaking technique like those he'd just to dispatch less flexible enemies was an impossibility.

Each steely foot came up, slashing at the warrior. He managed to fend off each blow with his sword, praying that the bird wouldn't shake him loose or manage to reach around with its beak and bite him.

It was exhausting, and difficult. Soon, Kifo had his GLOCK out, and was working on aiming it at the avian's skull with one paw as he struggled to keep his balance. The bird was now running, even as blow after blow feel towards the demon, and Kifo knew that he couldn't keep it up for long.

Suddenly, three things happened at once.

Firstly, the GLOCK went off. Its bullet glanced off the side of the bird's skull, causing it to squawk loudly, and nearly fall.

Secondly, Kifo realized that he wasn't the only being that knew to save a secret weapon for the end. Spikes rose out of the bird's back. Long, sharp, deadly spikes that exuded right from its vertebrae.

Thirdly, the demon lost his balance, and fell.

Onto a spike.

He roared, yet even in his pain, clutched the spike with one paw, his GLOCK falling out of his paw, and held it in place so that it wouldn't jostle around, injuring him further. His sword flashed, and its steel met the organic steel of the bird's talons a few more times, before the demon's eyes darkened, almost clouding over.

He'd made use of his emotions. He could cause things to wither and rot away, or extend the power of some of his weapons. But he'd never tried to create the effect of a weapon... out of nothingness.

But he had to try.

And so, with a hiss of rage, the warrior gathered his anger, and discharged it, using his paws to funnel it, aiming right for the bird's head—

A long tongue of flame shot out, burning the avian's skull, scorching all the feathers off of it instantly. It shrieked in agony, and ran faster, talons clawing at the warrior furiously yet not quite meeting his flesh.

Then, Kifo growled, and clutched at the spike hard, before concentrating, allowing the darkness in him to flow into it.

The bone snapped, cracking the bird's vertebrae. At least, the talon's stopped coming, though the demon's troubles were far from over. They thudded to the ground, and separated. Kifo managed to hold onto it's spike, and panted, managing to dislodge it from his chest. But the bird was still alive, and with malice in its eyes, it dug its beak into the ground, and began to drag itself towards him.

He turned, then snarled. His arm flashed, throwing the spike like a javelin—

It buried itself into the avian's head, finally stopping it in its tracks. As Kifo shuddered, bleeding dark, acrid blood that seemed to burn everything it touched, he thought only of his Master...

"_You could have prepared me for this better."_

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 2.5: Kifo Sings a Song

* * *

The warrior looked at the armored shell of his enemy... it was now totally and completely empty. As he started to leave the cave, he paused, and turned...

Kifo then sat down next to the hulking carcass, and began to tap on it. Soon, the dull thuds that echoed through the cave were rhythmic...

Soon, groups of squid dragged themselves up from the lake, and began to listen to the harsh, yet flowing beat that the demon made.

His head bobbed up and down to the beat, and soon, the warrior's voice came out as dark, angry rasps between his overlarge teeth.

"Now, this is the story, all about how

My death got flipped, turned upside down

And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there

I'd like to tell you how I became the fighter of the voice in the air.

In New York City, I was born and raised

In my apartment, alone, that's how I spent my days

Flippin' TV channels, forgetting about school

And all shooting up big ol' Times Square like a fool

When I fell down to Hell, burning up, right

Landed in the Forbidden Island before it was night

'Bout to get swarmed over by a million ants

But then this big bad voice, it made me dance

With pain, man, because that's all I feel

I ain't been injured yet so I dunno if I can heal

Master said, angry-like, "Oh, no armor,"

But I'm like, "Yo, that's cool... that shit is for farmers."

Left a few minutes later, fuck the ado

Walked for days through the African meadow

The Western Grasslands, that was my destination

But soon... it'll all be my Master's nation.

Caught me a gazelle, then I tortured her hard

Tossed the bitch back with a grenade in her gizzard

Bomb went off, made a big mushroom cloud

I looked, man... and damn, I felt proud.

Headed down, down, deep into the South

Fuck, shit, damn—I gotta watch my mouth

.338 Lapua, that don't work underwater

But Hell if that's gonna stop me from doing a slaughter

Venomous squids—what the fuck is that?

Makes me want to kill them all with a gat

But then, it makes sense

Because death is my mission

And a friend... that's the only thing I'm missin'."

One by one, the squids slid back into the watery depths that they called home. Kifo yawned, then got to his knees, murmuring a prayer before curling up next to the skeletons of Chukizo and Maisha. A thousand miles away, al-Mujahid asked for five reviews before making a few, final keystrokes... and signed off.


	4. Competitors II: Tough Environments

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 4: Competitors II: Tough Environments

* * *

(This time, I promise I'll have the beginnings of a real story. Also, in this universe, I'm going to say that the Lion King, as in the movie, was never created. Read up to chapter 11 of the Freak, and of course, all of My Name thus far. This is meant to be read before chapter 12 of the Freak. Finally, there's going to be a good deal of the supernatural here. Well, there already is, but you know what I mean... the good kind of supernatural.)

* * *

The demon lay there, dying. It was odd: he was already dead. Wasn't he? After all, he shot himself through the head, and he hadn't seen the body he'd known for his entire life since that had happened.

And yet here he was, bleeding from a chest wound that just wasn't closing no matter how much pressure he put onto it, no matter how hard he tried to use his emotions to do something, anything that might save him, so that he could do the bidding of his Master.

"Your Master..."

Kifo managed to lift his head slightly, despite himself. The voice that spoke to him was so much like that of the one who'd given him this... existence. And yet, it was so, vitally different. This voice spoke in a calm, deep baritone. The demon's Master spoke in a harsh, grating tenor.

"Do you even know what he is?"

The warrior raised his scaled head, and looked up to see that the dense, oppressive humidity of the Unexplored Regions seemed to have collected itself. It formed the bust of a large, majestic lion...

"...No. I don't."

The apparition seemed to pause, and Kifo wondered... was that question really rhetorical?

"...Then... how can you go to fight an enemy that he points out to you... when that very enemy is nothing more than a being that, for all you know... is the same as your Master?"

Kifo seemed to think about that for a moment, and was about to answer before the lion spoke again.

"You are not a mere pawn, demon. I have seen what you're capable of... ever since you left the Forbidden Island, you've been as alone as you were before you came there."

That made the fur on the warrior's back stand on end. How could this being, who he knew, instinctively, to be the complete antithesis to his Master, know about Kifo's life before his death?

"I advise you to think, young warrior," the voice said, softening slightly, as if some sort of timer was about to run out, and it was time for it to return to its own lair, "because you have no reason to believe that the Master who so utterly failed to prepare you for the beings you have met... and still have yet to meet... what makes you believe he'll do anything for you but throw you aside when he no longer needs you?"

Finally, the voice left. Kifo seemed to think, for a moment, as emotionlessly as he always had, not even realizing that his wound, somehow, had healed itself.

"_I'll pay Master back for the power he's given me. The power for revenge. After that, he will no longer be my only Mater... I'll go to whoever can make me stronger. Deadlier. More prepared for when I finally have my revenge."_

He then looked to the sky, to where his most recent visitor seemed to have left to.

"I didn't believe in the afterlife when I was alive. But here I am... so, I guess... there _you_ are."

* * *

"_Brother, how is it that you may converse with this demon, when we cannot even speak with my son, our—"_

"_Scar, brother, you know that it's not that simple. The Great Spirits are... well, they are not omnipotent. And the ways that their powers work do not allow us to both prepare your son for what he has to go through, behind the curtains, and speak to him at the same time."_

_The dark lion sighed, and looked up meekly at his red-maned brother, as his mate seemed to accept the turn of events as well. Maisha, of course, probably wouldn't. That's why they'd deigned to "allow her" to spend some time with her grandfather._

"Funny,"_ Chukizo thought, _"even in the infinite, every moment spent with a loved one is precious."

"_But Mufasa..." the tigon said, addressing her brother-in-law, by matehood, as the larger lion turned to respectfully meet his sister-in-law's eyes._

_Her lips twitched mischievously._

"_Is our little cub not preparing, in his own way?"_

_The lion sighed, and seemed to turn away. Only now, the Great Spirits had managed to cut through the dark haze that had completely obscured their view of the world. They'd lost the first battle, and the war, though far from decided, wasn't going well—and yet, they had had their victories._

_However, Chukizo and Scar hadn't been able to even look down upon their son since he'd started to train the Pride Landers in their assault on the Bloody Shadows. And so Mufasa wondered just how forced those contented smiles on their faces were._

"_He is... greatly. But, my dear sister-in-law," the former Lion King said, "though he made the Shadows bleed... I do not know if he can fight and win against his own grandmother, in her domain..."_

_Chukizo's smile slowly fell, then collapsed entirely. Saar's did the same, though his dropped into a look of sadness. Whereas his mate's expression was one of angry disappointment._

"_Mother..." she murmured, in a soft growl of a voice, as a hot tear started to leak from her eye, "can't you see... after all these years?... ...You forgave Father. But you still can't accept that I was your daughter? That my son, your heir, needs _someone_? My Spirits..." she said, taking in a long, raspy, rattling breath, "can't you see that he's our only hope?"_

* * *

"_Come ooonnn, Grandfather... tell me another story!"_

_The baby li-tigoness was, as always, gamboling about, batting at the fluffy, cloud-like structures as if they were butterflies. Dhaifu, grinned—she was so much like him in her playfulness. He reached over, and playfully tapped Maisha, knocking her over, causing her to squeal, then launch herself at the being closest to her: Jinga. That tigon merely stood his ground, taking the friendly nips that she landed onto his muzzle... like him, her jaws weren't quite as strong as they might be. Ziwi chuckled once... and wrapped his forepaws around his niece, pulling her away. Most cats, even infants the age of Maisha, would have heard him coming. But she didn't._

_Ziwi wrestled the cub into submission, then spoke to her, even as she continued to laugh._

"_We... are... one."_

_His brothers, and father looked over. The tigon had been going off to spend much time alone with his sister. They'd never known why, and every time they asked him, he'd pretend to not be able to read their lips—a likely story. But now, it all made sense..._

_His voice was strange, and somewhat forced. But still.. he spoke._

"_...I know, Uncle Ziwi," the li-tigoness said, rubbing his side with the blunt smoothness of her head, "You, me, Uncle Dhaifu, Uncle Jinga, Grandfather, Mother, Father... Mufasa... big brother... Grandmother..." she ended softly, looking strangely at Shere Kahn, "...we're all the same."_

_The tiger looked away, as if in shame. He, Chukizo, Scar, and Mufasa, and even Uru and Ahadi had come to the decision that Maisha, at her young age, shouldn't be informed about certain aspects about the Circle of Life. At least, not immediately. Shere Kahn had joked that she need not know ever—in the infiniteness of this afterlife, she would never _need_ such information._

_And yet..._

"She has the wisdom of Mother. ...Of brother..."_ he thought, looking back at the li-tigoness, wondering __how to explain the dark whispers that he knew still haunted him, even now,_ "...I suppose I'll never see them, even here... they would have died at home. I died in a practical other world, and it was only by the hand of man that I came there. ...Men... they're strange beings. They walk on the same Earth that we do... and yet, I think I understand: time works differently for them, though I do not know how... but some of them seem to understand us. Like that one,"_ the tiger ignored his granddaughter for a moment, to remember, and, again, forgive the big man that had beaten him after he was captured,_ "could there be others that understand us... and want to help us?"

_He didn't know. He didn't know at all. But just then, the heavens shifted in another direction, and if he'd looked down at just the right angle, he'd be able to see back, back near his homeland... a white tigress had taken a few moments to herself, giving her mate some time to spend with their daughter. And yet... she was going to meet a human. A young human..._

_But the tiger did know one thing, and he saw one thing as well: his granddaughter's unspoken yearning for an explanation about her grandmother... and he saw how to deliver it._

"It hardly makes a difference,"_ the tiger thought, choosing his words carefully, _"she will die soon anyway. She can explain it herself..."

_He pushed the thoughts of how _he_ would look that poor lioness in the eye when they finally met out of his mind for the moment, and leveled a powerful, yet meek, and humble gaze at Maisha._

"_I have... a new story for you," he said, and was pleased to see that she seemed to perk up slightly, though she still fixed him with a look of suspicion, "it's a story of forgiveness... you see, some beings have to deal with anger in their lives. Much anger. And sometimes, they express it in ways that are... bad. This story, my granddaughter, is about someone who did just that... and it's also about how the greatest of beings may come from the worst of places."_

"Samehe..."_ he thought, before speaking again, saying, "One day, there was a... tiger. Like me. ...Me. I was tired, hurt. Dying. And I was bothered. ...Then, I did something that was very, very wrong..."_

* * *

"_I once heard a guy say that there are a thousand paths to enlightenment... and that we can find one anywhere. ...I don't believe the shit he said after that, about how brothers and sisters on that same path are just as commonplace. But I guess that... lion... he was my path. Now, I'm not... living... just for Master. From now on, it's gonna be how it always should have been: about me."_

"_Fuck the world for killing me, fuck everything living for being alive, and fuck Master for treating me like a tool. I'm more than a God-damned tool."_

"_...I'll pay him back for giving me this body. But after that, he'll have to pay for what he wants me to do. He'll have to teach me things, or give me more power, or something... or I'll find someone else. I don't care."_

Nothing changed on the warrior's face. And yet, he changed completely. He'd spent the past few days of his life relying on his Master, trusting that that being would take care of his underling, that he'd reward Kifo for his work.

No more.

The demon looked skywards, after the entity that had just left him.

"...You're different from me. ...But you're not so bad. I'd gladly work for you."

There was no reply. But that was okay. He expected none.

"_I bet that guy's satisfied that I listened to him. He didn't come out here to change me, or none of that shit. He set out to he—no, he didn't want to help me, he doesn't give a fuck about me. He wanted to make me less threatening... to something. Or someone. ..And since he's made me think about my so-called Master... I guess I'll leave his friends alone."_

"_For now."_

He got to his feet, realizing that his chest had healed. He pawed at himself, and then ceased his motions, as if suspicious if he really was as good-as-new as he felt.

Though the demon could still now travel in the Unexplored Regions relatively safely; by picking his fights and avoiding attention, he still had to get through the majority of that area.

It was slow going: it was like every five miles that he traveled brought a new need to duck and hide. Still, the warrior was moving. And he kept moving even after the sun set, allowing both the moon, and the most dangerous, deadly, animals out of the depths of the Unexplored Regions. He had to stop more, yes, to avoid the three-headed, dog-like beings that he wasn't even sure if he could fight _with_ his rifle.

But he never remained still for more than a moment. After all, he had a mission to do, and the desire to accomplish that mission was the fire that burned inside of him, keeping him going.

Because he couldn't do anything else—yes, he could fight, he could shoot, he could bring such pain onto a being that it would make his Master shudder in glee... but he couldn't for the "life" of him figure out what he wanted to do. He would have his revenge, one day... but then what?

Kifo didn't know. But as he trudged and ran through the horrid, disgusting overgrowth of the Unexplored Regions... he remembered... that he used to _dream_.

* * *

The boy was six, and, like most of his peers, in first grade. His face was as devoid of emotion as it always was. And yet, in his eyes, lay a spark that no one had ever seen before.

But no one looked at him, certainly, not into him, not at his eyes. And so they assumed, all of them, that today was just as meaningless for him as all other days were.

Even his parents.

"Mom. Dad."

He appeased them with the same practically blank stare that he might favor, for instance, a thrown-out candybar wrapper with, and, predictably, they didn't even nod towards him as he opened the door to enter their apartment room.

"I've decided... what I want to be."

There was a long pause. Neither of his parents budged, save for his father, who raised a can of beer to his lips to take a long, deep sip.

"I want to be a—"

"A what?" his father interrupted, cutting off the child, silencing him instantly, "a mannequin?"

That earned a laugh out of his mother, who kissed his father's sweaty, unshaven chin. The man chuckled deeply, then attempted to take another gulp of alcohol; failing, because the can was empty.

"...No. I want to be a social worker.."

That made both of his parents laugh; the high-pitched giggle of his mother contrasted with the deep grin of his father. But he stood there, taking it, not even blinking at their apparent amusement.

"What's so funny?" he asked after a moment, as their laughter quieted.

"What, are you serious, kid?" his father asked, standing slowly.

At that, the boy backed up automatically. His father didn't get up from his couch much, and when he did, it was rarely for a reason that didn't cause him pain in some manner.

"Yes, Dad. I don't joke a lot."

The man gave a single, almost explosive guffaw at that. He raised his beer can again, then checked the motion. However, before his son could do anything about it, the can was crumpled, then bouncing off of his forehead with a dull thunk.

He dropped to a knee, clutching his skull, and hissed in pain, a few drops of wetness appearing in the corners of his eye. A second later, he became aware that his father's feet were just inches in front of his knees, and struggled to stand, to cringe away, still holding his head with one hand.

"Kid... I'm gonna ask you one more time... you're joking, right?"

The child flinched, then stumbled as he got to his feet, looking almost completely upwards over the beer-gut that impeded his view of his father's face, and spoke.

"...Dad... what's wrong with wanting to help people?"

A blinding pain exploded at his face, and he moaned, facing the ground, feeling something warm and wet drip from his cheek.

"You can't even help yourself, you little prick," he said matter-of-factly, "so I'm gonna learn you to do that before you even think about helping someone else."

It hurt a lot. But he didn't—couldn't—cry. He didn't know how.

"You do got balls, though, I'll give you that," the man grunted, lashing his belt over the kid's back one more time.

* * *

"_My future's not in the future. My future is in the past..."_

Kifo paused, and looked to the northeast. He could swear he saw distant movement, so he used his claws to climb up a tree, not caring that it was already starting to wither and die at his touch. The warrior flipped open the scope of his rifle, and sighted.

Lions. A few males, and many, many lionesses. The Falme.

"_I'm making good progress."_

Time, weather, and the environment had little meaning to Kifo. He ran past it all, faster and faster, as if he could outrun the pain that he was starting to feel. It was as if it had built up over his whole life, owing to his inability to understand it, and now, now that he could feel it, in a way, it seemed almost overwhelming.

"_The only way I can deal with my pain is to make others hurt. To make them hurt a lot."_

The remainder of the Falme passed him by without event. He scarcely registered that his taloned feet were now scampering across the dark, dirty sands of a desert. Most of the warrior's attention was on himself—the growing feeling of hurt, hollowness and panic that threatened to suck away his life or eat him from the inside out.

"_I swear... I'm not gonna rest until _all_ my pain is gone. No matter how much death I have to bring to this world... I don't care. Because that's the only way I can deal with it..."_

He didn't even consider the possibility that there might be another way for him to live. It just didn't occur to him—his father had done an untold amount of damage to the world when he'd forever crushed the fledgling desire to help others from his son. Kifo hadn't thought of how to help anyone but himself since that day... and now, years later, after his normal life ended... he was going to help himself.

The warrior abruptly froze in his tracks. There was a mass of trees in front of him... the forest. His destination.

Kifo looked upwards, at the sky. It was dark, probably only minutes after dusk. Did that matter? Yes, a little bit—he couldn't see as well. His assault would have to wait until the morning.

However, now, he could conceivably do some reconnaissance. Check what the monkeys were doing, and see how to best defeat them.

The warrior walked forward. He didn't have to go far before the distant sound of agonized animal sounds and the raucous chirps of monkeys made his eyes narrow.

"_Genocide in the animal kingdom. ...I wonder if the Great Spirits have any knowledge about this... this is probably out of their jurisdiction."_

He took a moment to wonder just how many battles like this between his Master and the Great Spirits were taking place in the world. And how many his Master's side won, and how many the Great Spirits's side won. And how much energy his Master's side wasted with infighting.

"_Not my concern. Not after this mission. After this, I'm a freelancer. I heard that there's one being that my Master's worried about... but he's gonna get sent away, or some shit. Wish I could get a chance to have a crack at him."_

But for now, he had to fight the monkeys. But to do that, he had to see them. So Kifo dared to move a little further...

And smirked. Maybe he wouldn't have to wait for daylight, after all. The monkeys were pure white, and stood out against the night like little candle lights.

They were small, about three feet high at most, with prehensile hands and tails. However, there were thousands, _thousands_ of them. His rifle wouldn't help much here... Kifo would need a machinegun, at least.

And yet, it was too late to go back to the Forbidden Island to arm himself. He'd have to make do with what he had.

The warrior seemed to think, then paused. He felt at his holster, remembering that he'd lost his GLOCK. But then he held out both paws, closed his eyes, and concentrated hard. He allowed his hate, malice, anger, and just a touch of emptiness flow from them into the world... and felt something in his paws.

Kifo opened his eyes... and looked down at a full magazine. He grinned. That was a start.

His rifle wouldn't be of much use to him. At least, not the way it was. But if he changed it... into perhaps a less powerful automatic, such as an AK47... that would do nicely.

"Another day..." he mumbled, sitting back to watch, gleefully, as the monkeys continued to destroy every living thing in their path.

Hours later, the slaughter was over. At least, in this part of the jungle. There was much of it left—Kifo assumed that this force had come from the north. And if that was the case, they still had the vast majority of the jungle left.

"_This place is fuckin' huge,"_ the warrior through, creeping up a tree to look to the east, he couldn't even see the end of this strange, new forest from his new vantage point.

The environment here was less humid than both the Unexplored Regions and the Jungle, yet it was hotter than the Jungle as well. It wasn't a desert, however... it was strange that so many animals could find their home in the almost dry dirt of it, in the tough, brambly trees, and harsh ferns of it.

"_Life finds a way. Unless there's a fucker like me around,"_ he grinned, wrapping his arms around a tree branch, listening to it rot, then hopping to the ground as the rest of it fell next to him.

"_I wonder what that guy... the one that came to talk to me... I wonder what he's doing now. Who he is."_

* * *

_Scar wrapped a foreleg around his mate, glad that she didn't shake it off, and muttered a few consoling words into her ear. Mufasa looked away... and a movement in the Desert caught his eye._

_The former Lion King cleared his throat, then spoke._

"_Perhaps your fears are unfounded, sister-in-law. Your mother seems to have... turned over a new leaf."_

* * *

"...Who cares, though?" Kifo said to himself, occupying the relative boredom of watching the monkeys, trying to figure out their weaknesses by concentrating small concentrations of his willpower into the air, shooting down any insect that was unfortunate enough to fly by, "I don't know why he helped me, but he sure as Hell didn't do it to help me. He's just another motherfucker that wants to take advantage of me," the warrior shrugged, then froze.

Another voice spoke from the air itself. It had the dark, ominous quality of his Master... but unlike his Master, it took a physical form. Namely, a scorpion-like creature that stood on two legs, and fixed his troops, who were now all standing at attention, wherever they were, with a cruel, proud grin.

"Heheh... nice job..." he drawled, "You've taken over the western part of the Eastern Forest..."

The monkeys seemed to mutter praise to one another, grinning, before listening up again.

"But be careful, kiddies... the Great Spirits might not be able to do a damn thing here. But the denizens of this forest know that. You realize that you haven't encountered a single tough cookie in this entire place?"

"Well... I'm not that powerful... but I'd put money down that says that they're grouping up for a big counter-attack, or something... keep your eyes open, fellas."

The monkeys grimly nodded. They knew that in the battles to come, not all of them would live. But their leader seemed to sense his troops's somberness.

"Don't be like that... I ain't gonna send you out there without a little parting gift first."

As the armored being said that, he seemed to place his strange-looking hands together, and murmur a series of incantations. Then, just in front of him, at the epicenter of the monkeys, was a large vat of a suspiciously blood-like dye.

"I'll paint this into symbols onto yous... and you'll get some of what the symbol suggests. Like, if you draw one o' your cousins, a gorilla," the monkeys grinned, "well, you won't be able to lift a fuckin' tree... but you won't be skinny little wimps any more."

The leader chuckled at that, and then his troops did. Kifo had to force down his rage... why couldn't his Master be so open? Defection was looking better and better, fucking doing this mission for him at all.

"_I'll kill at least a thousand of them..."_ Kifo promised himself, _"...mmm... that might actually be some fun,"_ he grinned, as he watched the first, brave monkey step up to the scorpion, and get a gorilla painted on his arm.

Seconds later, the monkey stepped up to a tree, upon which sat a few dozen of his brothers. He punched it, dented its trunk, and causing the entire bunch to call and shriek in a wild, crazy uproar, before they all got in line.

Kifo watched, jealousy burning in his heart, as the scorpion took the hours that were necessary to adorn his entire force with the paint. Some got symbols of strength, others of speed, others of cunning, and many, many more. Finally, it was finished... and he left some of the dye behind.

"If you guys need more, go ahead and paint yourselves... but don't be too greedy and try to put on two symbols, or you'll just die. That is, unless you're literally evil as Hell," the leader grinned, then vanished into thin air.

Kifo perked up at that, and watched in glee as the monkeys retreated to the northwest, assuming that no creature around here was dexterous enough to paint themselves... but they didn't figure that the demon was, the entire time, watching them.

"Evil as Hell, huh..." he smirked, approaching the vat with lust-like hunger in his eyes.

* * *

(My name's al-Mujahid

Five reviews, that's what I need

To continue the story, My Name

However, unlike Freak, Kifo's brining me little fame

Still, if you're reading even now

Click the button "Submit Review" that is, relative to the page, down

Just please, don't be a flamer or similar type of hater

So this is al-Mujahid, and I hope to see you later.)


	5. Competitors III: Tough Creatures I

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 5: Competitors III: Tough Creatures I

* * *

(Read this alongside Chapter 13 of the Freak. Also, don't forget to check out my Balto fanfiction.)

* * *

The demon carefully lowered his clawed finger into the vat. It felt like blood, though it was more gel-like, and when it dripped off of his finger, it did so in long, mucus-like tendrils.  
Still, Kifo was able to carefully draw a picture onto his left shoulder, with difficulty.  
"_Patient, quick and deadly, like a cobra... the snake that hides under the flower is dangerous, indeed,"_ he grinned, loving the burning pain that the dye made on his flesh.  
He dipped his finger into the vat again, and this time drew a larger picture on his chest.  
"_Master didn't give me armor... but I can be tough and sturdy, like a rhino."_  
Kifo dipped his finger into the vat again, dabbing away the last bit of dye from it, and drew a final symbol on his right shoulder.  
"Dangerous, brutal, and built to be alone... like a tiger," he growled, and concentrated on his finger, so even the blood-like liquid vanished, burning away.  
Feeling quite pleased with himself, the warrior started to walk away. But he suddenly froze.  
"Why the fuck do I feel so lonely?"  
(remember what Samehe said about the needs of a tiger?)

* * *

Morning.  
The White Army rested in the northwestern part of the lesser-known Eastern Jungle. Oh, the Falme knew about their neighbors' existence, on an academic level anyway, there had never really been peace nor war between the Eastern Jungle and any other land. It was a land of tense peace, of bloodless anarchy—there were no leaders, official or otherwise, and the only law that mattered was the law of the jungle.  
The monkeys were piled all over the trees and foliage of the environment, sleeping on top of, and next to each another. They'd had a long, hard day of fighting... and even now, every moment of sleep was important.  
Suddenly, they were all awaken at once by a sharp, high-pitched roar. One of their own looked around, eyes wide, then looked at his own bloody paws, which had gone to involuntarily clutch at his chest. Then he fell, blood seeping from his torso.  
There was no confused, fearful chatter. The White Army converged on itself, before a dozen monkeys moved off quickly, scouting out the mist-filled foliage. The sounds of their scampering feet quickly died off, and the rest of their comrades listened carefully.  
Then, there was a clatter of noise, followed by a few pained yells, an angry shriek or two, then silence.  
Then more silence.  
An earsplitting roar then rolled through the Eastern Jungle, and now, the White Army couldn't help but grow fearful, if for only a second, before shrieking and jabbering back.  
Out of the white, thin fog that plagued the forest like a scab, walked a silhouette. For a few seconds, the closest members of the army thought that it was, impossibly, their leader...  
"Hi, guys," said the figure calmly, as it manipulated a strange, blocky device in its paw, making several clacking sounds.  
As he stepped closer, totally unimpressed by the snarling, angry, painted monkeys, it became clear just how drained he'd become in even one night of practicing hard, hard enough that he was now clutching at a GLOCK 18, loaded with high-velocity frangible ammunition.  
"Kifo's my name," he said, flicking a speck of grime from the muzzle of his automatic, "and killing's my game."  
His arm flashed, so that the strange device was aimed directly at the White Army. Sensing danger, they scattered. But they were so bunched up that they couldn't avoid all of the pistols 33 rounds. Twenty or so monkeys fell, but there were still _thousands_ left.  
As the Jungle came alive with the White Army's war cries, Kifo grinned—these beings might not like him; Hell, they might hate him. But now, he wasn't alone...  
The demon primed a grenade, and drew his sword as his enemies made for him.  
"This is gonna be fun," he snarled, before lobbing the explosive at a pack of the animals.

* * *

By nightfall, the western-most parts of the Eastern Jungle were covered in blood.  
Kifo panted, then froze, ducking under cover.  
He might be many things, but he wasn't invincible, and right now, he was exhausted. He'd spent the day fighting, regenerating ammunition. He was glad that he'd painted himself; though he'd come up against harsh odds at points, he hadn't taken any serious injuries, and, aside from that, when he was forced to fight paw to paw, he had literally torn his opposition apart.  
But now, he needed to rest. And so, the demon's scaled, taloned feet clomped to the south, far south, until he felt safe enough to almost collapse against a tree, not caring that the hundred-year-old plant would no doubt die from such prolonged exposure to him.  
He closed his eyes... but couldn't sleep.  
Something just didn't feel right...

* * *

"_Mufasa," Scar said, approaching his brother, obviously somewhat harassed, "this enemy... this demon. Does he have any weaknesses?"_  
_The former Lion King paused for a long moment, then spoke, as he looked down, trying, fruitlessly, to penetrate the darkness that clouded the Great Spirits' view of the world that they were supposed to control._  
"_I don't know..." the tan lion said, "I couldn't speak with him long enough to tell. But brother," he said firmly, seeing the dark lion's downcast expression, "don't worry. Your son has... perhaps... only a few potentially weak points. But you, your mate and I have only ascertained them because we've been watching him for so long now..."_  
"_And this demon... he is not strong. He is as all tyrants are," the red-maned lion said, "fearful, and in great pain. But what scares him, what hurts him, I don't know. Not yet. But I estimate that I will be able to find out."_  
"_So..." the dark lion said, somewhat comforted, "my son will be able to stand against him, when the time is right?"_  
"_Ye—"_  
_Mufasa suddenly paused, as a particularly malicious spike of evil peaked in the world._  
"_Yes... provided that he can survive what's coming."_

* * *

Morning came, and with it, so did the sound of a GLOCK's slide being racked. Kifo punched his semiautomatic pistol forward, holding it's slide in place, and watched as a 9mm frangible round found its way into the chamber.  
The demon suddenly felt a strange, inexplicable desire to throw down his weapons, to beg the White Army for forgiveness, for acceptance... but steeled himself.  
"_Later... later, I'll find out just what the fuck's going on with me."_  
Kifo swallowed, and felt his eyes tighten.  
He was gifted with the ability to sense life... to sense where it was, to sense how strong it was. And at this time, a new life was entering the world...

* * *

The mother monkey was alone as she gave birth. It was for her own protection—the rest of the Army was to the south of her position, in between her and the assumed position of their enemy... whatever it was.  
The female pushed and groaned, occasionally stifling shrieks of agony by clamping her jaws shut on anything she had handy—a branch, a stone, or her own arm...  
The baby was taking its time to come, and so it was for a full half-hour that she laid there in agony on the ground. Perhaps if she wasn't in such mind-splitting pain, she would have felt two eyes on her...  
Finally, the baby came. The mother took a few long seconds to shudder, to take in rattling breaths of air, and reached down towards her child...  
But strangely, she couldn't. Something seemed to be wrong with her hands...  
The female brought her hands to her face to look at them, angrily; she only wanted to hold her newborn child, how dare they not work!  
And then, she realized... she no longer had hands. Her arms ended at her wrists, in clean-cut, bleeding stumps...  
Any normal monkey would have died then and there in the combined agony of the injury and the thought that they'd never, ever be able to do even the simplest of chores ever again.  
But this one was a member of the White Army, and she could deal with her pain, for a time, anyway.  
With a shriek of challenge, the female monkey managed to position herself over her child, preparing to defend him against whatever terrible monster had amputated her so easily.  
There was a snapping, tearing sound from behind the monkey, and she turned viciously, but then, for the first time in her combat-ridden life, _flinched._  
And who wouldn't, after seeing a terrible, deadly-looking monster casually eating their arms, looking at their child curiously?  
"Hi!" the demon said playfully, before shoving the rest of the monkey's hand into his powerful jaws and biting down, so that a series of popping cracks were heard, "I'm Kifo. What's your—"  
The warrior moved in a flash, punching the charging, screaming monkey in the chest, knocking her to the ground instantly.  
"_Courtesy of my cobra and tiger sides,"_ Kifo thought, grinning happily to himself for reasons that he couldn't begin to fathom before he spoke, "Hey now... why so aggressive? I only wanted to chat."  
The monkey made a series of incomprehensible, rasping, snarling sounds as she struggled to stand, and the demon's eyes narrowed.  
"Watch your mouth. Especially around your kid, you bitch. You want to scar him for life?"  
The demon extended his claws, and moved them towards the baby monkey, who merely seemed to be tumbling around innocently, and its mother fell silent.  
"So..." Kifo said, and leaned back, relaxing, crossing his feet, "...what's up?"  
The monkey looked at the demon strangely, not daring to believe her ears. Her lips twisted into a snarl, and she followed her fighting instincts, trying to kick Kifo.  
This time, there was no mercy for the monkey. Kifo's sword flashed, and she fell... in different pieces. The demon sighed, shuddering in rage slightly, and ran his tongue along the blade of his weapon, before sheathing it.  
He looked down at the baby disinterestedly. It was pawing around at the ground uselessly, looking at its mother's body without any discernible emotion.  
"...Hi..." the demon said.  
The monkey looked up at him with big, unblinking eyes, then raised its minuscule paws towards Kifo.  
A day ago, the warrior would have scoffed, and shot, stabbed, or dispatched it in any number of other vicious ways. But today, he felt different.  
"I'm Kifo," he said, and reached out with his clawed, powerful paw, extending a finger to rub the little primate under the chin, "wassup?"  
Of course, the baby only cooed slightly, and wrapped its arms around Kifo's wrist and paw, dangling off of it, closing its eyes. It opened one eye, looking over at the demon, who, suppressing a feeling of intense disgust, didn't brush it away, and instead brought the monkey closer to him.  
Half an hour later, looking down in wonder, mostly at himself, and gave the baby monkey's smallish form a stroke. Why he felt no malice towards it, why he felt strangely... content? Fulfilled?... he didn't know. All he knew was that he only wanted to hold this monkey, this baby animal, in his arms...  
All at once, it woke up.  
"Hey, little guy... what's up?" the demon said, in a strange, friendly voice that sounded horribly mangled when it was produced by his Hellish jaws, "hungry? Here, try this..."  
Kifo lifted up a bit of meat, namely, muscle from the monkey he'd killed... the baby's mother.  
The little being didn't seem to care, however, as it merely sniffed at the bit of meat, then tried to nip at it... but, of course, it had neither the teeth nor the jaw muscles for the job.  
But it still had its hunger. And it had no way to express that except for crying.  
"Hey, now, stop that... stop it!" the demon suddenly snarled, and, for a moment, the baby monkey did stop its cry.  
Kifo was torn—the instincts he'd only come to acknowledge since his "death" told him to kill the monkey and be done with it. But now, something else in him told him that he needed to do whatever it took to help this lost little one.  
So he took the animal in his arms, and dashed around the Eastern Jungle, a purposeful sense of urgency, so much so that he barely remembered to hold a weapon at the ready, just in case. But no matter what plant he offered the monkey, no matter what he said to it, its crying only got worse and worse.  
And the demon didn't have much patience.  
In the end, Kifo lasted longer than one might expect—a full ten minutes. But the next time the demon was aware of himself, he was shaking in rage, a terrible cloud of blackness in his mind. He felt the need to vomit, strangely, and did.  
He dropped to all fours, and retched. After Kifo brought up some of the undigested meat in him, he spat, and rubbed the back of an appendage over his lips. Unsurprisingly, it came away bloody.  
The baby monkey was gone, horribly, and the demon knew better than to look for it. He didn't even want to think about it, but he knew that the infant was certainly dead, and reduced to a form so different from the original that it would be irrecognizable.  
Kifo stood, and took in a long, rattling breath of air that became smoky and sooty the moment it passed his lips. He shook, barely capable of staying on his feet, and had to close his eyes tightly, clenching his hands into fists, biting down so hard that his gums bled.  
The demon was distracted. He was confused, he had no idea what was going on inside of him. It occurred to him that it might have been a side affect of using the dye—perhaps the scorpion-creature had made it so that all that used it would feel a sense of attachment to members of the White Army.  
He was in pain, he wasn't paying attention. And if Kifo was, he'd have realized that there were two eyes on him...

* * *

(You wanted story... al-Mujahid out.)


	6. Competitors IV: Still Around

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 6: Competitors IV: Still Around

* * *

(This doesn't need to be read alongside anything in the Freak.

Also, I've decided to change the rating of My Name to M. There's just too much material here that's by no means appropriate for teenagers and other immature age-groups to read. Make no mistake: this story is built to disgust and shock you. But there is a method to my madness... you'll see, soon enough. But I do have to warn you: My Name will get no less graphic, violent, senseless or shocking than it's been thus far.)

* * *

Water.

There's something about it, the way it flows, the way it sloshes, the way it cuts through rock and land, the way it dashes even the mightiest boulder to bits in its powerful waves.

The way it washes away our fears, our enemies, and any evidence of their existence that they leave behind.

Or, the way that it appears to.

* * *

Lions, like almost all cats, neither like water nor are made to be capable of swimming well. True, though, in times of life and death, they find the strength to pull themselves out of relatively shallow, relatively calm water.

Surely, however, water that flows along at great speed, that tumbles through rocks, over waterfalls, that carries any sediment caught in it hundreds of miles aways... _surely_, no lion is capable of surviving that.

Surely not.

* * *

This land was one that was far, far, far away from either the Pride Lands or the Outlands. It lay _well_ beyond the Eastern Jungle, and even beyond the gigantic Forests of the Far East, of which the unorganized residents of the Eastern Jungle scarcely knew of.

In short, the utterly drenched, half-dead lioness that found herself washed up on the sands of a quiet lakebed had no idea where she was.

Of course, that wasn't the first thing that registered to her.

First, she realized, that she was, despite the incalculably long odds, alive.

"_Scar's gone..."_ she thought, rasping, trying to get to her feet before she fell, and brought up some of the water in her.

She was exhausted, and water still filled much of her lungs. So, for now, the lioness remained still, defeated, for the moment, but, as always, planning, regrouping, filling her soul with new determination... new hate...

"_Sarafina... by now, you have struck.. have you succeeded? Does it matter?"_

She started to breathe a little less shallowly, and after a full hour of rest, opened her yellow and red eyes. Her tawny fur clung to her ribs as it always did, but now, the pangs of hunger that she'd known all her life were more intense and urgent than ever.

"Scar's gone..." she rasped, struggling to get to her feet; defeated for the moment, maybe, but still standing, never truly put down, "...Scar is gone..."

She extended her claws, testing them, and felt her old strength, her old anger return, giving her purpose, giving her direction, giving her power.

Her lips twisted upwards, and her teeth split apart into an unmistakable grin.

"But Zira's still around..."

The lioness then tore off through the foreign land, claws slicing vegetation, her peals of laughter echoing after her like the cries of agony of all those whose lives she'd ruined...

* * *

She'd spent her whole life fighting, learning, tempering herself, improving. Her first hunt had been a complete failure, as had her second, and third. But on her fourth hunt, she'd perfected her technique... and that night, every one of the Outlanders had feasted on the flesh of _two_ zebras.

Zira's lips twisted into a snarl as she remembered her former "pride."

"Ungrateful bastards," she growled, as she bit into the neck of a deer she'd just found and downed, to make sure that it was dead, "I gave them everything, my children, my youth, my loyalty, my blood... and, in the end, what did they give me but a slap across the face?"

The lioness ripped a chunk of flesh from her prey, and scarfed it down. Then, she proceeded to eat the animal to the bone, leaving nothing except for what would be undeniably toxic to her.

Then, she ran, at a brisk, merciless pace for _hours_. Finally, panting, she came to a halt, and checked out the area surrounding her location—a wet, rather chilly (for her) forest—and slumped over.

"_Zira... that name no longer fits me. I no longer seek to rebuild Scar's empire, I'm only one lioness... and I'm not getting any younger. My goal now is only to avenge myself, and Scar... so, that will be my name. Revenge. Kishindo."_

"Kishindo."

* * *

Days, weeks, _months_ of running with little rest, stopping only for eating had added pounds of muscle to Zira's tawny frame. Now, she could spring through the treetops with little effort, without even breaking a sweat.

She was stealthy, too. The Forests of the Far East had large predators, ones that were at least thrice as heavy as she could ever hope to become. They had thick, dark-brown fur, jaws powerful enough to smash through solid rock, and claws longer than hers.

Fighting them was a challenge, and a challenge that slowed her down... and now that Kishindo knew that she could fight them and win, she didn't bother to try any more.

Though, the meat of their children was tasty...

* * *

"_Now, I'm getting somewhere..."_

The lioness was in the Eastern Jungle. She scarcely knew of the land; her whole life had been devoted to the reclamation of the Pride Lands for its rightful owner; she'd never really bothered to learn much about the Land of the Spirits... and there as no one to teach her about it, either.

Within two days, she was in the northwestern lobe of the Eastern Jungle.

Kishindo froze. She sniffed the air—there was something here, or someone... someone so much like her, some one so... _deliciously_... refreshingly... evil.

Someone powerful.

And someone that, in his own way, needed her.

And someone that she, in her own way, needed.

Eyes filled with lust-like greed, she watched, analyized, calculated, and realized that, after all, the being she was looking at was so much like her that they could have been born to the same mother...


	7. Competitors V: Tough Creatures II

The Lion King: My Name  
Chapter 7: Competitors V: Tough Creatures II

* * *

(Read alongside Chapter 14 of the Freak.)

* * *

"What's wrong...?"  
Kifo spoke without thinking. He was in such distress that he hardly registered that he was being spoken to.  
"I... killed. That's not what I care about, though. I killed something that liked me. A friend..."  
"....Why?"  
The demon retched again.  
"Because..." he said, then swallowed, staring at he ground, "I'm... fuckin'... beyond evil. I can't even stop myself from not killing things that _like_ me..."  
"There there, now..." the voice said, and Kifo looked up, registering that an old lioness, but a muscled, powerful one, was approaching him—a paw went to his sword automatically, "hey..." she said, with an edge in her voice, "calm down."  
Lips twisting slightly, Kifo slowly removed his hand from his weapon. He watched with skeptic suspicion as the lioness drew closer.  
But then, all at once, it was like everything was good in the world. Kifo could fight again, he could kill, he could enjoy himself and have his revenge... after all, this lioness was nuzzling him.  
"Why...?" he said, as she backed away.  
The lioness merely grinned.  
"Because. You're like me—no. You _are_ me. I don't know how I know that," the lioness said, "but I know it. You're motivated by your revenge... and after you have it, you don't give a _fuck_ about what happens..."  
The female spoke simply, matter-of-factly. But Kifo nodded like he was being asked a question.  
"Well then," she said, grinning darkly, "it's like I said. We are one, you and I. One and the same."  
"Yeah..." the demon rasped, hardly capable of believing his good luck, unable to even stand, "...what's your name? I'm Kifo. Death."  
"Ooh..." the lioness said, a tingle jolting up and down her spine, and the demon's, "evil... my name is Kishindo, though, I was once known as Zira."  
"Zira..." the demon said, and raised a hand, running it alongside the lioness's tanned side, "Kishindo... will you be my friend...?"  
The lioness's lips turned upwards. But this was not an act of condescension—it was an act of sympathy. She nodded—and the demon felt a great weight lift from his shoulders  
Kifo began to regain his strength, and stood, towering over the lioness. His weapons had disappeared, he noted, but, upon concentrating, he managed to procure a GLOCK again, a 9mm with an extended magazine and match-grade barrel. His sword remained, of course, but seemed to grow sharper, more cruel than before.  
"...Kishindo. Come on," the demon said, and began to jog through the forest, his pace easily matched by the lioness, "I've got a little present for ya..."  
The demon's face twisted into a smirk; his overlarge teeth hanging out of his mouth. His crinkled, dry skin stretched and convulsed, and his taloned, scaled feet ripped apart the ground as certainly as his claws had ripped apart Spirits knew how many lives. He chuffed, for a moment, then, along with his newfound friend, ally, mentor, and companion, laughed; horribly, long and loud, displaying their mirth and alliance to anyone who dared listen.

* * *

It wasn't a very long trip. And it was a trip made even shorter by the fact that Kifo told Kishindo everything... literally. Everything he knew, everything he remembered... and everything that he desired...  
"Th—ere..." Kifo said, pulling his dripping wet hand away to eye his handiwork.  
There was no dye left now. But who cared? He'd never been much of an artist, but the stick-figure emblazoned onto the lioness's fur could only be interpreted as one thing.  
"A man," the demon said, licking his lips; his tongue coating them not with saliva, but blood, "how do you like it?"  
"A man..." Kishindo repeated, "what sort of creature is that? Perhaps, one without any sense of mercy or compassion? One without the capacity to fully comprehend, or care about, the magnitude of its actions? One so deadly and so ruthless that it's universally hated, feared, and respected?"  
"All of the above," Kifo said with a snarl, causing the lioness to cock a suspicious eyebrow, "...my bad, I... kinda have a history with man. I used to be one, see."  
Kishindo opened her mouth, making a quiet "ahh"ing sound, and then snickered maliciously, before gently head-butting the demon's thigh.  
"You truly are evil, Kov—Kifo..."  
The demon seemed to not have heard the lioness's slight slip of the tongue; and yet, didn't react for a moment. Then, he held Kishindo firmly by the scruff of her neck and knelt down, glaring at her with such malice, such power, such dominance and such a complete lack of good that her fur stood on end.  
"You got that _fucking_ right," he breathed, then released the lioness, and chuckled...

* * *

(Excessive cursing coming soon to a fanfiction near you.)  
The White Army was silent.  
Then, it exploded into high-pitched, chattering conversation. How had the birthing female been killed without alerting the rest of the Army? And what in the name of the Spirits had happened to her newborn? The monkeys of the White Army had seen, so to speak, some crazy shit in their days, but to find an infant smashed into slush was something that turned even _their_ stomachs.  
Yeah, it was that bad.  
Everyone was lost, no one knew what to do. In other words, even with their recently-obtained gifts, and the chance to practice using them on citizens of the Eastern Jungle, they were susceptible to an ambush.  
And a two-pronged ambush could break them.  
Six automatic rifles opened fire. Dozens of light, high-velocity frangible bullets smashed saplings into splinters, cut leaves and plants into finely tossed salad, and turned flesh into hamburger meat.  
They reacted well—monkeys with rhinos painted on them moved up to take the brunt of the attack. They still died, but they protected their brethren from the worst of the bullets.  
Then, _another_ attack broke out.  
Roaring a terrible, hissing, shrieking roar that made the monkeys cup their hands over their ears, what could only be described as a monster jumped out of the tree-line. In each hand, or paw, or appendage, he held a .45-caliber MAC-10 submachinegun. An inaccurate weapon to be sure—but a weapon capable of belching out heavy, slow-moving bullets at a rate of almost 1200 rounds every minute. The twin automatics clattered, sending the large chunks of lead arcing towards, and into, the White Army.  
An incredibly quick, incredibly vicious tan figure jumped into the fray—limbs, heads, and all manner of other, less describable body parts were flung everywhere as she ripped the White Army into separate, bloody, chunks.  
The previously undefeated force had had five thousand members when the fight began. But in only half-an-hour, that number had been _halved_. Oh, the White Army had tried to fight back; rushing at the two main forces at first, then trying to circle, then finally, trying to _burrow_ under the ground in desperation. But nothing worked; endless streams of bullets seemed to beat them back no matter what.  
And so, really, you can't blame the ones that live to fight another day—by running like cowards.  
Kifo and Kishindo stood side-by-side, panting. The demon took in a deep, rattling breath, then let it out in a terrible chuckle.  
"That... was... great—"  
"You assholes! You fuckin' assholes! You two-bit, back-stabbing, yellow-bellied, lily-livered, mother-fuckin' assholes!"  
In the center of the battlefield, standing on a heap of who knew how many broken bodies was the scorpion-like creature Kifo had seen before. Instinctively, he stepped forward a little, protectively making his body a barrier between the newcomer and Kishindo, just in case.  
"HEY!" the demon shouted in outrage, "you callin' me an asshole, asshole? Who the fuck do you think you _are_?"  
The black, shelled creature glanced to the side slightly, and raised its hung head, sighing, walking in a non-threatening manner towards Kifo.  
"Hi, I'm—" he began, extending a clawed appendage until Kifo growled and brandished a machinepistol, "hey, yo, easy, tiger," the scorpion said, clearly affronted as he stopped in his tracks, "jeez, what is this, I was just introducing myself..."  
"Anyway. Like I was sayin', name's Kisuse. 'Sup?"  
Kifo didn't betray a hint of humor or interest, but Kishindo stepped to the side, slightly, to get a better look at the only creature in the land that she knew of who might possibly best Kifo in a fight.  
"Kisuse... scorpion. How apt," she commented dryly, "now... what are you?"  
"Duh, duh, duh, well, duh, my name's, duh, Kisuse, so, duh, it might fuckin' follow that I'm, duh, a fuckin' scorpion," the shelled being said, looking at Kishindo incredulously, "Spirits Almighty, where were _you_ when they passed brains out—"  
"SHUT IT!" Kifo yelled, and for just a second, the scorpion reared up in fear, his stinger half-raising, "e... fuckin'... nough. Shut up..." he seethed, hissing; acrid saliva spitting past his lips to burn holes into the Eastern Jungle.  
All was silent, save for the distant sounds of the survivors of the White Army running farther yet into the Eastern Jungle—there was a pause, then screaming, roaring, and the sound of more fighting... apparently, the anarchist residents of the Eastern Jungle were _not_ just going to turn over and die.  
The scorpion licked his lips... then slowly, smiled, then cackled, doubling over in laughter.  
"Sh... shut up? Hahahahaha..." he laughed, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, "duuuude... who are you? No, don't tell me, let me guess... got it! You're the warrior of evil, of Sh—you're Kifo! Kifo, the warrior of evil, twin of the warrior of good!"  
"He's insane," Kishindo muttered, then dug her claws into the ground, "come, Kifo. If we're quick, we can end him without a problem... _they_ don't seem to like him either..."  
"No. No, I'm not insane," Kisuse said, suddenly seriously, "not insane," he sighed, then stood up.  
"Alright, look. You two... and those six mindless robots... are assholes. Sorry buddy, it's gotta be said," the scorpion said, raising his voice to be heard over Kifo's growl, "I mean, come on, what've I ever done to you, ah? And yet, you come here and fuck up my Army... Hell, you even stole my dye! Now, I can't pretend I'm not impressed, no, no, wouldn't want to do that at all..."  
"But you are assholes."  
"So... where do we go from here?" the scorpion said, then paused for effect, then raised a finger, "ah, I have an idea! How about this..."  
He licked his lips, facing Kifo and Kishindo fully, using his shelled hands to help him speak.  
"From now on... stay the fuck outta my hair. Alright? It's not gonna be that hard to do. Your little boss, okay... I dunno. I don't think our time is ripe yet," he sighed, "...but that's not of your concern."  
"So!"  
"I'm gonna head off to the east... far, far, far away from here. Okay? So just fuck off, and leave me alone. I got wounds to lick, shit to check on... again," the scorpion sighed, "no, it's none of your concern, it's not even gonna affect you assholes. Oh, and as a token of my good will, I won't kick your sorry, furry asses for stealing my damn dye—that was my life-blood, my blood, you stole my blood! Vampires!" Kisuse said, mocking panic.  
The scorpion sighed again, licking his lips, and looked to the west, into the air... and shuddered, as if something had just looked back at him.  
"Well. It's getting time for me to get going... oh, and a word of advice. You see those fuckers back there?" he said, thrusting a thumb behind him, "might wanna talk to them a little bit. They're dumber'n doornails, but still... haha, I guess that's another thing ya'll have in common. So... adios, amigos!" Kisuse grinned.  
And just like that, the scorpion vaporized into ash and dust, and was carried, as he said, far, far to the east, out of sight, out of mind...  
"O_kay_..." Kifo began, "...let's check out those guys..."  
Kishindo nodded, eyes narrowing as she and Kifo, as well as the half-dozen other beings walked towards each another on the battlefield. Her claws were extended, their firearms were drawn, but no insults were hurled, no threats made, no weapons pointed.  
The six other fighters were... men, in a fashion. They wore boots and cargo pants that bunched up into the tops of their boots, neatly. They wore gloves, too, and their belts were thick and loaded with ammunition pouches.  
They carried MG36s with 100 round Beta C magazines and KAC Masterkey shotguns and reflex sights and flashlights. But, horribly, they were unable to ever set down their weapons... their right hands were all melted into the weapons' handles.  
Their skin tone ranged from the pale white of the Nordic peoples to the deep brown of Sub-Saharan Africans, with every shade in between imaginable. They had long hair, short hair, red hair, black hair, brown hair. They had brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, and hazel eyes.  
They wore no shirts. Their chest were, from the collarbone to the sternum, normal. But after that, their skin sloped inwards to graze against their spines, giving them a ghastly, and, accurately, unearthly appearance.  
Their faces were blank, emotionless, and their eyes focused with intensity as Kifo and Kishindo approached.  
"So..." the demon said coldly, as if he was unintimidated—for now, this force could beat him—for now, "...who are you?"  
In unison, they answered, "The Black Army."  
Indeed, as close as they were now, Kifo and Kishindo could see that three black streaks, as if made by fingers, slashed diagonally over each face.  
Kifo blinked.  
"...Who are you?"  
"The Black Army."  
The answer was as quick and perfect and delivery as the previous one.  
"Who do you work for?"  
"Master."  
"...I'm Kifo. I used to work for him too."  
There was a pause. A long pause. Then, a long-clawed deinonychus dashed towards the demon and his consort out of thin air. Aggressively, the servant approached, claws raised, and stopped only when Kifo growled and moved his MAC-10s rather suggestively. Kishindo looked at the dinosaur with disinterest... she could take him, she knew it.  
"Traitor," the deinonychus accused, "Master gave you _everything_, and yet you—"  
"Don't bullshit me," Kifo said, "he brought me back to life, or whatever this is, to serve his will. And guess what? I am. I do evil. And I'm gonna keep doing evil until I'm strong enough to have my revenge. If the particular evil I do dun't serve him as good as he wants it to... well, tough fuckin' beans," Kifo said coolly, "I don't work for that bastard anymore."  
"You dare—"  
"No, he _does_," Kishindo said with a snarl, "you don't understand. You, perhaps, follow your Master because you're under the delusion that he'll reward you... pathetic. Once you no longer serve his purpose, he'll eliminate you. The last thing a being like that wants is competition. Why do you think Kifo was sent here?"  
"Enough," the dinosaur said angrily, "...there's nothing more to discuss. You," he said, glaring at Kifo, "are no longer welcome in the Forbidden Island... the one place in this land where the Spirits have no control still..."  
That word choice made Kifo think—was evil not doing as well...? Were the Spirits fighting back, successfully?  
"Until Master, the true King of this Land, comes to power, your presence will be... tolerated. And until he comes to power, you will be welcome to _leave_. But when he comes to power, oho..." the deinonychus grinned toothily, "you'd better be gone. Otherwise I, and my sabertoothed brother... we'll make you gone."  
"Please, that big-toothed faggot ain't worth shit—the fuck is he? A walking, talking can-opener? He's an insult to evil. Like you... strutting around with your big-ass claws... get them painted or _something_, bitch, because they're not shit, either..."  
The dinosaur was, simply, not a good being. Not at all. When he lived, he'd spent his life killing. He ate only the best parts of his victims, leaving their bodies, for the most part, to rot.  
It was quite a miracle that he managed to hold back from slashing the demon's throat wide open.  
That, or he was... ...intimidated... by Kifo.  
"...Go. Get lost. Out of the Eastern Jungle. You have two days to get to the Black Hills of the North. But don't be so sad... there are plenty of things to kill there. Have you fought a feline, yet, or an ursine? No, I don't believe that you have... just a crab, a spider, a bird... well. Fight the Leopards of the North, or the Giant Bears of the same land... and then, _if_ you and your little friend survive," he said, glaring at Kishindo, "then, perhaps, you'll be worthy of standing up to a real enemy, a real force... the lions of the White Sands. Because for now... well. It's time for the Eastern Nomads to return northwards from their migration to the Barren Plains of the Southeast. And taking care of them is a task that Master will trust only to the Black Army... and his _real_ followers."  
"Yeah, whatever," Kifo yawned, "this place sucks anyway. It's hot as Hell, and if the White Army, the Eastern Jungle dwellers and these Nomads are softcore enough for you amateurs... I'm better off elsewhere. 'Bye, bitches... see me when you want to have a real fight on your paws..."  
With that, Kifo and Kishindo walked _just_ next to the dinosaur, with the latter sneering and throwing her nose, and tail, into the air in contempt. The Black Army gripped their rifles a little more tightly, shouldering them but not daring to aim them towards Kifo or the lioness at his side.  
They watched the demon walk away for a good mile, until they were sure that he really was heading towards the Falme Kindakindaki, presumably to go through its tip and then towards north, into the Black Hills... a land that bordered the northeastern lobe of the Pride Lands, the only place that was untouchable by direct evil.  
...For now.

* * *

The deinonychus didn't have to wait long.  
The sabertooth tiger stepped out of the air, materializing into being with a puff of soot—this abberation wasn't as clean as previous ones had been. And if they didn't know better, the servants would have said that their master's war wasn't going as well as had been planned.  
"Greetings, Cretac... How did it go?"  
"Welcome, Altsoba..." the dinosaur said, bowing his head slightly, trying not to flinch from his master's right-hand man's cold, misty-gray eyes, "...he's gone. Out of Master's employ—"  
That was as far as the reptilian got. Because, without so much as raising a paw, the sabertooth caught his throat in a vice-like grip.  
"Cretac, Cretac, Cretac..." he said quietly, approaching the rasping, gasping dinosaur, "can I really believe you? Did you do everything in you power to try to convince such a powerful tool to remain in the hand of its Master...?"  
It was then that Cretac noticed that Altsoba was wearing a cape—a ragged, black cape that seemed to linger in the air, spreading dust as the feline approached him.  
The sabertooth locked his eyes with the dinosaur's fearful, yet still unrelenting green orbs. And then, all at once, the pressure on his throat fell.  
Gasping, the dinosaur barely heard Altsoba speak, as the sabertooth strode purposefully towards the east, the Black Army following him without dissent or explicit command.  
"It's time for us to go. We, Cretac, you and I, are not like these men. We're the _real_ evil; not like these gutless pawns. And so, we attract the gaze of the Spirits..."  
The sabertooth made a few quick steps, then jumped into the air, disappearing.  
Cretac paused for a moment, hissing in resentment.  
"Can-opener..." he seethed, before he too vanished.  
The Black Army continued on towards the east. There was just time to fight off the rest of the White Army and even the rest of the Eastern Jungle's anarchists before the Nomads returned.  
Some would say that with the will of the Spirits, they'd be victorious.  
But who needed the Spirits, when they had their Master?  
The decision was made all at once, without discussion or dissent. Louder, and louder, the Black Army chanted, until their voices riped through the forest, piercing the ears and hearts of its inhabitants. They spoke their Master's name, over, and over, and over...

* * *

Talking.  
There was a lot of talking. More talking than Kifo had ever done in the shell of the life he'd lived, in fact. Talking to Kishindo, about everything—her life, his life, their plans, and everything in between.  
The demon was at peace.  
Oh, there was killing too, and plenty of it. The lioness and the demon, together, shot, clawed, bit, broke, maimed, gored, and tore apart rodents, small lizards, the occasional monkey, crocodile, and bird.  
There was no challenge, but still, killing was fun. Plenty of fun.  
But still, there was no challenge...

* * *

"_Something's wrong," Mufasa said, looking from Scar to Chukizo, "I don't know what it is, yet. No one does. But we all think that the master of Kifo is preparing for something... something big. Something that will affect your son," he said._  
"_Evil has been a little careless. They haven't taken the time and energy to hide themselves from us. So, that means that they don't mind being seen. The Spirits and making an offensive, now, but we're almost certain that evil is gathering, _conserving_ power."_  
"_So..." said Scar, "...any ideas as to what they're planning?"_  
_The red-maned lion shook his head._  
"_We suspect that it's powerful, though, whatever it is. And so, we too have been saving energy. Because if your son, brother, killed, there's no more hope."_  
_Chukizo spoke next._  
"_He's that important... that if he dies, the Land of the Spirits is doomed?"_  
"_Yes," the former Lion King said, "he embodies hope. His life, as you know, has been inexpressibly difficult. And yet, though we can neither see him nor speak to him now, we can tell, Chukizo, that whatever he's doing now is because despite the hardship's he's been through, he has hope."_

* * *

(Anyone ever been to South Dakota? That's what I'm modeling the Black Hills after. Think of these leopards as sort of crosses between leopards and snow leopards, but I'll describe each sufficiently that you'll get a good picture of them.)  
This forest wasn't unlike the Forests of the Far East that Kishindo had had to become intimately familiar with to survive. It was neither dense nor sparse; and its coniferous trees included tall, flaky redwoods; broad-leafed pines, twisting, bizarre junipers. On the ground, mosses and ferns dominated. Grasses were few and far between; and when they did exist, they were sharp-bladed tufts that sprouted out of the ground as if randomly.  
But the terrain was as far from flat or manageable as possible. True, in some areas, it was navigably sloped. But for the most part, the huge sedimentary structures that rose from the ground made the terrain crumbly where trees didn't dare take root, and treacherous where they did.  
The weather was without exception cloudy. Some days, a general haze of gray allowed sunlight to reach ground. But for the most part, conditions were so overcast that the dark green vegetation on the ground looked even darker.  
A full mile above the ground level, only a few trees grew. They were short—whenever one got too tall, the weekly thunderstorms struck them down with lightning.  
And thunderstorms weren't the worst the land had to offer. At least once a month, tornadoes ravaged the ground, sometimes even falling a tree or two.  
And recently, tornadoes were frequent... almost _unnaturally_ frequent...  
And so, the inhabitants of the Black Hills had taken to meditating more, praying to the Great Spirits, their best, their _only_ defense against evil.  
The Black Hills weren't particularly kind to a single mother.  
And yet, the dappled leopards of the Hills had lived that way for generations. Mothers raised cubs until they were old enough to strike out on their own. Fathers hunted for their families, sometimes—but they knew that if they were too caring, too soft, too gentle, their children would never be prepared for the sometimes harsh world.  
And so, the burden of the father was to sometimes be harsh himself.  
However, after cubs grew up and proved that they were capable of being independent, a great tradition took place: the Ascent. Together, the family would travel to the top of the highest rock in the Black Hills, Spirits' Peak, and spend a full month together. After that, they would return to their homes, and only interact when coincidence brought them together.  
The Black Hills weren't particularly kind to a single mother.  
But the dappled leopardess; so spotted she looked that her grayish fur looked brown or black, was no longer a single mother.  
That part of her life was over. She was now proudly self-reliant again. Every three or four days, she spoke to her favorite male, in fact, the one she'd chosen to father her child. And her child... she spoke to him every two days now.  
For a full year after he'd left her, Makhlava had watched him grow. She'd watched him hone his hunting skills, grow stronger, and rise. Sometimes she'd watched him fall, too—but her duty as a mother demanded that she sometimes let him fall, so that he could see the glory that it is to stand.  
Now, the leopardess was waiting. She was concealed behind a large group of ferns at the base of a huge sequoia. Twenty feet in front of her, and fifty feet straight up, a got with long, sharp, curving horns strutted around, nibbling on grass, its beard trailing across the ground as it adjusted its position.  
The leopardess's large, padded paws shifted as she tensed every muscle in her body, preparing to unleash herself towards the animal. The thick, longish protective fur behind her cheeks, at her jawline ruffled slightly in the wind.  
The goat's hoof left the ground—  
And off she went. Slightly less than twenty feet forward, then fifty almost straight up.  
The leopardess tore through vegetation, then scrambled up the sheer, rocky rocky face, her paws finding footholds in depressions and outcroppings only inches deep. The goat reacted, and tried to head down the face, trying to out-maneuver the feline—  
But Makhlava was too fast. She sprang to the side, and reached out with her paw, hooking it around the goat's neck. Continuing upwards, mostly due to her momentum, she got over the rise into a small cove, then smashed it against the unyielding rock wall with enough force to cleanly snap off one of its horns.  
The leopardess clamped her jaws shut around the goat's neck, and used her forelegs to pin the animal down. Due to trauma, blood loss, and asphyxiation, the goat quickly expired.  
There wasn't much meat to be had on the animal, but who cared? Leopards weren't heavy eaters; in fact, this one kill could sustain Makhlava for at least two or three days comfortably.  
However, today, she hadn't hunted only for herself.  
"Dato... Sonam..." she said loudly—she didn't need to yell.  
Ten minutes passed. Then, Makhlava smiled.  
Two leopards approached. Both were male, and both were grayish. One, however, had exactly the same spot pattern as his mother; albeit slightly more subdued. That one, the younger one, also had exactly the same facial structure as the other male...  
Within seconds, both newcomers had bounded up the sheer rock face with ease. Makhlava smiled, and touched her nose to each of their's in turn; the younger one first.  
"Dato..." she said, smiling at her son, before touching her nose to the older leopard's, "Sonam... come. Let's share our first meal together in this Ascent."  
The two males returned Makhlava's peaceful smile and bowed graciously. Then, together, the family ate. There wasn't much meat on the goat. But what made it taste so marvelously delicious was the fact that Makhlava had killed it... to share it with them.  
The leopards only backed off of the kill when there was bone left. They'd eaten all of it, every consumable chunk of flesh, and had liked its skeleton clean. To do anything less, they knew, was both a sin and an insult to the goat, as well as an affront to the Spirits.  
The Spirits...  
"It's thanks to them that we even exist," Sonam said, looking at his family, first at his mate, then at their child, Dato, "your mother has taught you well, young one. You pray every dawn and dusk, I've seen it. I am honored to have fathered such a devout being," the leopard said, then honored his son by bowing slightly.  
"Father... it's because your blood flows in my veins," the juvenile leopard said modestly, "without you, or mother... I'd be nothing now. Thank you," Dato said with incredible gratefulness as he rubbed his soft blunt head against both Makhlava and Sonam, "thank you," he repeated.  
Sonam and Makhlava looked at each other, and smiled.  
"...Come," the father of the family said, looking to the north, towards the largest, tallest rock in the Black Hills of the North, "let us take our last steps as a family together, as we go to make our Ascent..."  
The Black Hills weren't particularly kind to a single mother.  
But something made Makhlava shudder for a second, as if her land had just grown decidedly more unkind to her. As if something, or somethings, had entered it, with nothing other than the desire to kill her, and her mate, and her child, and her entire species...

* * *

"The Black Hills of the North..." Kishindo said.  
Kifo nodded. Over the past days, his weapons set-up had changed. Now, he carried a scoped Browning BLR in .308. The lever-action rifle was tough, powerful, and the demon had carefully modified it so that it was equipped with a larger, extended magazine than held fifteen rounds. He still had his GLOCK, but this time it was a model 17 with an extended, match-grade barrel, and a grip that fight his hand perfectly, as well as night-sights, and an autosear that gave it burst-fire capability.  
The pistol was holstered at his side, and his sword, now shortened into a machete-length blade that was sheathed behind his left hip. The BLR was mounted on a Sceptre three-point sling that Kifo had adjusted so that it was ready for weak-hand transition and shoved behind his back so that it hung loosely, but perfectly for quick usage.  
On his torso, the demon carried a short-barreled pump-action shotgun loaded with flechette—perfect for eating through light cover, and flesh.  
He glanced to his side, and smirked slight at the lioness.  
"Neat, huh? The climate really agrees with me..." what Kifo didn't know was that that was because the climate of the Black Hills mimicked the climate of the place he'd lived in before his life took a turn for the worse, when his parents had moved the family to New York.  
"Yes... and Kifo?" Kishindo said, looking up at her companion with pure _hunger_ in her eyes, "what lives in it, and is soon to die in it... agrees with me."

* * *

(Yo necesito five-o reviews-o. al-Mujahid-o out-o.)


	8. Homeland I: Unwelcome Guests

The Lion King: My Name

Chapter 8: Homeland I: Unwelcome Guests

* * *

(I recall that way back in the first chapter of the Freak, I said that these works would serve to display the suffering that minorities undergo. Thus holds true below.)

* * *

The tree had stood for hundreds of years. Its toughened trunk had withstood tornadoes, lightning storms, hail, and other perils. Gnarled holes from fallen branches made homes for squirrels and birds, lizards and bees. It was a practical condominium of _life_.

"Faster, Kifo, faster! One, two, three, go!... That's better…"

Deep, gouging slashes were hacked into the soft, yielding wood. They were perhaps five feet above the ground, but didn't remain to perhaps be repaired and recovered from, someday, but… burned, or sickened, eating away at the tree, turning it into charred, decaying dust.

The demon sat down, heavily. He was sweating, and the grip he had on his knife was tight. His chest—bigger and more muscled now than it ever had been—rose and fell, rhythmically, along with the pulsating malice in his eyes.

"Ahh, my dear Kovu… Kifo…" Kishindo practically purred, slumping over next to the demon, confident of his ability to offer her protection, "you're getting stronger," she grinned, hissing, "stronger, and faster, and better than even I could imagine. When we attack the leopards—"

"Save it," he said gruffly, sheathing his blade and drawing his GLOCK, checking the magazine, "I'm fuckin' exhausted. …Kishindo, I like you, you're a great teacher and all, but you can be a slave-driver at times, you know?"

"Actually, I don't," the lioness said arrogantly, standing up to stretch, cracking her old but toughened bones, "we of the Outlands never had any slaves to keep. They say that the Eastern Nomads sometimes capture prisoners in their raids of the Cheetah Tribes of the Barren Plains of the Southeast… but it's just hearsay," she shrugged. "The lions of the White Sands are in a prime position to carry off leopards from this land whenever they want—but they have class," the lioness said, "and generations ago, when the lion prides of the Land of the Spirits last met, Mohatu demanded that every alpha male of every pride agree to an anti-slavery pact."

"Of course, the Eastern Nomads didn't exist, then. They were just a loose collection of savage rogues; not a pride, as they are today."

"The lions of the White Sands, they say, were reluctant to abolish slavery. You see, Kifo, they live on the very edge of the Land of the Spirits—they must not only keep in the Spirits' good graces, they must appease other, Lesser Gods. They do so with treasure," Kishindo said. "It's too difficult for lions to search for treasure. So, what they used to do was invade the Black Hills, from time to time, take leopards as they needed, and work them. Food was provided, but often, when the leopards were released after years of dedicated labor, they were too weak and injured to live for long."

"It's called predator control," Kishindo grinned terribly, "if you make sure that predators aren't too successful, that their numbers don't increase too much… you can control the very infrastructure of a land, and ensure that the mouths of your people are fed first."

"Huh," Kifo said noncommittally—he'd only half-listened to the long soliloquy, "Wait—so, let me guess… the hyenas didn't just leave the Outlands because there wasn't enough food there… they left it because every now and again, one of them would _vanish_, right?"

"Why yes, yes, my dear Kifo..." Kishindo smiled, a horrible gleam in her eyes, "Vanish… and let me tell you, young one, the meat of a carnivore is so, _so_ tender…"

"…Spoil the surprise for me, will you? I'm going to find out, Kishindo," the demon said, pointing his pistol into the more inhabited part of the Black Hills to the northeast, "real, _real_ soon."

"Ah, Kifo…" the lioness chuckled, giving her tawny form a shake, "you're like the best of Kovu—at least, the Kovu I used to know—and Scar… so powerful," she said, eyeing the demon's bulging muscles, "so terrifying," she grinned, reaching over to flick a leaf off of his knife's hilt with a paw, "so dominant…"

"Yeah. Great. Dominant. Scar and Kovu," the demon said sarcastically, before chuckling, dangerously, and turning to the lioness, "now… get me something to eat. I'll keep training," he grunted, performing a modified kung fu windmill to get to his feet, "but Kishindo…" he murmured, glancing behind him to show off a muscled, rugged frame as he screwed a long, fat suppressor onto the muzzle of his GLOCK, "bring me something alive."

The lioness gave a twisted, horrible smile, and rubbed herself against the demon's leg. Then, with a grin, she bounded off.

_"Alive… I can do alive."_

* * *

Back in the day, in New York, Kifo had never really taken care of himself. He was never fat; he didn't have the money to buy an excess of food. He was scrawny, though, and what meat he did have on his bones was loose and weak.

Now, though, after perhaps two weeks in the Black Hills with Kishindo, he was stronger. Thick bunches of muscle rippled over his frame. His build might be compared to that of a heavyweight MMA champ, but he could strike ten times harder with his fist than any human could with a foot. His black fur was thicker, now, and from endless training sessions with Kishindo, he was well aware of how efficient it was at stopping a clawed strike.

Grunting as he cranked out the last of a set of three hundred pushups, Kifo knelt, for a minute, to catch his breath. Bullet-sized drops of acidic sweat poured from his frame to eat neat little holes into the forest floor.

The demon moved, suddenly, jumping up, and did a quick somersault in midair. The backs of his knees caught on a branch and he hung there, for a moment, before started to do crunches. His face contained a harsh, angry, determined expression as his abdominal muscles began to ache.

His weapons were laid down, neatly, on a bank of dark topsoil, just a few feet away. A paw's reach, essentially, and the demon gave off such a horrible, unearthly feeling that everything living left him the Hell alone. Not even an insect remained within thirty yards of this forgotten corner of the Black Hills.

Silence…

Motion!

A heavy, black, furred ball slammed into Kifo's chest. And in his concentration, the demon was caught off-guard. He was knocked from the tree, to land, dazed and confused, on the ground.

He groaned, clutching his head for a moment, before he managed to get to his feet.

"The fuck…" he groaned, blinking his eyes rapidly until his vision cleared, "the fuck was that…"

A brown, furry ball was the missile that had knocked the demon from his perch. But, rather than remaining whole or degenerating constantly like an inanimate projectile, it uncurled, letting out a bleating, whining, moan. Kifo paused, lip curling, then froze as he saw a flash of teeth.

_"Shit… a bear cub. …Momma Bear ain't gonna appreciate this…"_

The demon moved, slowly, towards his weapons. He was large, though, large and heavy and built for stealth. He made good progress, though, so he was just a foot or so from the handle of a shotgun when a roar reverberated through the air.

Kifo flinched, and, slowly, fearlessly, turned, and stood. He looked his enemy up, then down, then up again. She was bigger than he was in terms of both weight and height. This would not be an easy fight.

The adult bear was snarling, livid, even as her cub ducked behind cover. Kifo hissed back, seethed, his lips pulling back in rage, before he roared back, sending birds to the sky for hundreds of yards in every direction.

His enemy, however, was not intimidated. And despite Kifo's nonverbal warnings—the display of his deadly, jagged claws, and the increased level of evil he'd directed at her to try to get her to leave… she tensed, preparing to attack.

The demon felt no fear, despite the way he was caught with his trousers completely down. Fear wasn't in his blood; his family had been fierce and warlike for generations. But, of course, Kifo had forgotten all that—all he knew was that the emotion that he felt, just then, was nothing aside from anger, so molten hot that it burned his insides as it churned, flowing, pouring to fill every crevice of his being with energy and _purpose_.

Not so long ago, Kifo, just then, would have exploded into action. Maybe he'd have thought to go for his enemy's throat or eyes, but, in all likelihood, he'd just act first and think second.

But Kishindo had taught him that anger, while a powerful tool, could be a double-edged knife. Sure, anger was motivation and power, but anger was also a potentially overwhelming impetus to action. So, anger had to be controlled; cooled, forged into a razor-sharp blade to pierce right through your opponent's heart.

So Kifo circled his foe. His fighting stance could be likened to that of a tae-kwon-do expert's—strong, steady, and, above all else, powerful. The static nature of his limbs, head, and paws in relation to his body made them seem like targets, but Kifo wasn't stupid. He was just going to be reactionary, at first.

_"Let her go for something… she's stronger than I am, but I'm faster, I think. Let her go for my hand, or my head, or try to tackle me… I'll dodge, grab a knife or gun, and take her down before she can recover. … C'mon, bitch… go for something. Come on. I attacked your cub. Try me."_

The bear's hesitation made Kifo angrier than ever, if anything. The being wasn't quite sentient, but she wasn't brainless. And from her body language—the less confident manner in which she stood, and the way she'd turned, ready to run—it was obvious that she was, at least, considering flight over fight.

_"Come on… come on… come on… come on… COME ON!"_

Patience only got you so far.

Kifo's assault was vicious and unexpected. He sprang forward, roaring, jumping into the air. He bent his knees, bringing them to his chest, turning, a little, making himself a small and annoyingly hard to hit target. The bear recognized this, and attempted to turn to run.

She wasn't fast enough. Kifo's foot lashed out, so his tough, spiked heel dug into her meaty cheek, striking her so hard that she dropped instantly.

The demon continued forward, due to the force of his jump, and rolled to his feet, turning, instantly, to face his opponent.

The Black Hills were silent. It was as if what few beings remained remotely near Kifo had decided to take time out of their day to watch his battle with the bear, because it would be long, brutal, and _bloody_

The soil under Kifo's feet was thick, and that was good. It offered him plenty of traction, compounding his agility and speed. As he circled his still downed opponent, it began to… not rain, not really, but mist. Moisture quickly began to collect on the leaves, the ferns, the bark of the Black Hills.

Kifo shook his head, vigorously, so that, for a second, his mane splayed out. It was then as the bear stood, groaning, that she saw just how strong her foe was. Still, pain in her eyes, she circled, flexing the tough muscles in her shoulders, upper arms, and upper chest, to protect herself from another attack.

The demon's rage had been mostly expended by his kick. So, now, he was more analytical than anything, making his opponent feel like… like a fly, killed and pinned down in the slid of a microscope for the heartless examination of an out-of-touch scientist. Such was the lack of emotion, of sympathy, in her sure-to-be killer's eyes.

Kifo hadn't yet killed a being that was intelligent. Not yet. None of his victims had spoken to him with words, but they'd all given him that look before. As his talons continued to dig into the ground, charring it, his lips upturned, slowly, into a horrible, twisted smile.

He'd seen that look before, many times, now… but _God_ did it make him quiver with delight, with anticipation.

Silence reigned, for another moment, as Kifo continued to circle. He didn't bounce back and forth; he didn't have to—his opponent was heavy and powerful but slow, so he didn't need to nubilate one of the viciously quick blows for which he'd soon become notorious throughout the Black Hills… and the White Sands.

The bear's cub was nowhere to be found, but that was the least of Kifo's concerns at the moment. What he was interested in was the bear herself—he wanted her, dead, at his feet. Bloodlust was one of the relatively few emotions the demon now felt, but now, he was savoring it not only on a gut level, but on an academic level. Oh, how he wanted to look upon that downed body, how he wanted to taste the fresh, warm blood, and oh, how he wanted to feel that sense of power, of dominance…

A strange sound, though, snapped Kifo's head back to reality—shit. That was sloppy; he needed to have his head in the game. He needed all his wits about him, because with one blow, his enemy could disable or even kill him.

But she didn't seem to want to fight, just then. Not even a little—her expression was one of plea, and the low, bleating moan she emanated was a tentative armistice—a display of her total lack of desire to engage Kifo.

The demon's eyes narrowed, and he concentrated, for a moment. A dark, gaseous substance collected in each of his paws, and as he shadow boxed once, a quick left-right combat, the acrid scent of burnt air traced from his appendages into the bear's nostrils.

"Fuck you. We're doing this shit," the demon murmured, "Come on, bitch… come on. Come for me, you know you want to, come on…"

Kifo's words were incomprehensible to the bear, but she knew that he was trying to egg her on. It was madness—seconds ago, she wanted nothing more than to gather up her child and _run_, but he was manipulating her. Purpose filled her, and she snarled, once, but flattened her ears as Kifo snarled right back, so that spikes of terror sliced into her innards like shards of broken glass.

Silence…

Motion!

The fight started up with a thundering roar, and charge, on the part of the bear. She dropped to all fours and barreled towards Kifo. The clearing in which he'd been training no longer had saplings or other insignificant forms of plant life to obstruct him, so she threw up columns of dirt with her paws as jumped.

Kifo, for a moment, was like a deer in the headlights. Indeed, his opponent's tackle—if it connected—would easily knock him off his feet, and could even toss him, like a ragdoll, into a tree.

He considered, for a moment, tensing. He could knee the bear, forcing half her teeth right down her throat… and mutilating his own knee, or, worse, shattering his patella. That was a no go, and time was short. A decision had to be made.

Rather anticlimactically, Kifo dived to the side. His arms outstretched, the curled as he tucked, slamming his paws on the ground, then rolled. Thanks to the skills Kishindo had pounded into his body like a blacksmith might pound shape and meaning into an otherwise mundane piece of metal, he landed, perfectly, facing his opponent.

She knew better than to try to stop, and, instead, circled around, baying loudly, and lowered her head as she had another go at Kifo. She'd left the impromptu fighting right, and so had torn up and shattered vegetation with her claws and paws. Trees, everywhere, obfuscated her view and her course, but Kifo still had to think quick.

He couldn't outrun her for very long, but he could outmaneuver her. The demon sprinted, bear hot on his heels, and bent down to pick up his dagger.

A snarl ripped his face, baring those unnatural, sword-like fangs for the Black Hills to see. He too ripped apart foliage as the bear closed in, lowering her head—but then, he jumped.

The bear jumped, too, turning in midair, and, with the use of her claws, ground to a halt, several meters later. She growled, slowly standing, glaring at Kifo.

The demon had taken refuge in a tree. His dark form was in a crouch, and, due to lighting conditions and the shadows cast upon the ground by the Black Hill's enormous pines, looked like some freakish owl. The way those hollow, dark eyes bored into her… God, it was unsettling.

Kifo toyed with his knife, for a moment, as the bear circled below him. He might be within her reach, so, he knew, she would try to take the fight back down to the ground at any time. He could easily climb, or, better yet, throw his dagger and land a debilitating or even fatal wound.

The demon grinned, at that prospect, and flipped his blade around several times. But then, he sheathed it, and again, accumulated that dark, acrid mist into his paws.

_"Not my style… I want to do this fight hand-to-hand. No weapons. If I can take this bitch out with my bare paws… I'll be able to drop leopards like they're fuckin' cubs. And lions won't be hard, either…"_

The bear jumped up, ending Kifo's thoughts, but he was ready for her. Extending those talon-like claws, he slashed at the backs of her digits. Fur and blood flew free, and, as she recoiled in pain, Kifo saw that he'd dug right to the bone—that was good. The injury wasn't mortal by a long shot, but the pain and suffering it caused was worth it.

By the time the bear was ready to attack again, Kifo was on the ground. He didn't circle, this time, but assumed a low, powerful fighting stance, a variant of the agile posture that Kishindo had determined to best supplement his natural, or not so natural, agility and speed.

His paws were smoking, now, but the bear had blood in her eyes. All she saw was her enemy… and the blinding desire to paint the Black Hills with his innards.

Her lack of foresight was her downfall.

She lunged forward, in a stereotyped but deadly attempt at a bear-hug. Kifo didn't recoil, though, as most did—he rose to the occasion, bringing a pawful of dark, evil energy with him.

The bear's eyes bulged, and a few tablespoons of bile leaked from her maw as the demon's blow caught her in the stomach. It didn't break flesh, but, disturbingly, it caused such internal trauma that all the mass; all the fat and gut and muscle on her belly was shoved aside.

Feeling the spikes of his enemy's vertebrae brush against his paw, Kifo knew that he'd done his job, and danced away before the bear could recover. He laughed, cruelly, as she looked down. Instead of being uniformly tough and fat, two large globs of flesh, displaced from her lower belly, had created bulges both upwards and downwards of the cavity.

Slow, the wound healed, in a fashion. Her belly bulged outwards, again, and the intense vacuum created by it attempted to suck her meat back into place.

It was counter-productive, though, and, as he casually collected his weapons, keeping a paw free and an eye on his enemy, Kifo smirked. The bear groaned, as dull, overwhelming pain emanated from her gut. Confused, she attempted to prod her belly, to see what was wrong, but her paw drew away instantly.

Pain…

Kifo worked the slide of his GLOCK, so that the two metallic clacks echoed, a little. There was plenty of wet vegetation on the ground of the Black Hills, and mist was still working to coat Kifo and his opponent with water droplets.

"Y'know," Kifo said, as he leveled the pistol at the dazed bear, "…Hell. I'm hungry. Where's Kishindo with my food, bitch? Did you eat her? Is she in the big, ugly belly of yours? Ha…" the demon scoffed, holstering his weapon.

He paced, waiting for the bear to recover from the devastating blow.

"Come on. Don't bore me, come on. I have to train, see, bitch? I have big things to do in this… existence, of mine. My master's no good to me, isn't that sad? Huh? Isn't it, bitch?" he said.

Kifo pulled his shotgun, now, and, continuing to pace, spoke in a harsh, caustic tone instead of the conversational air he'd previously employed.

"Come on. C'mon, please? I promise, if you attack me now, I'll finish you quickly, see?" To demonstrate, Kifo put the muzzle of his weapon against he head, and pretended to pull the trigger. "C'mon… it's not a big deal. Just a fight, see? Hell—I'll even finish your cub humanely… …maybe. But come on, you won't get a better offer than that, right? Come on, bitch. Come on. Get up, bitch, fight me, get up."

"Come on. Come on. Come on. _Come on_… …COME ON!" the demon suddenly yelled.

Slowly, eventually, reluctantly… the bear stood. It was, in a way, madness; this was not a fight she'd win. That much was certain already—she might take a few chunks of the demon down with her, and she might injure him, but she could not win.

And yet, she stood.

It was courage in its saddest, most bleak displays. She could either succumb on the ground, curled up and pathetic, to a hail of bullets or blows… or she could stand, and look death in the eye as it came for her.

Honorable.

The meaning of the action escaped Kifo, however; he was merely grateful for the opportunity to put his skills to the test. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, though, as the bear brought her paws to her face, and breathed into them.

Then, glaring at the demon, she moved them down, slowly. Her maw opened to help her vocalize her deep, booming growls, she placed her appendages on her lower belly. The demon's lip curled into an arrogant sneer, but suddenly, he clutched his chest, as a dull ache washed over him. He was forced to take a step back with a surprised yelp, dropping to a knee to avoid passing out.

Kifo had been struck with a practical warhammer—his enemy, it seemed, wasn't down and out, not yet, not by a long shot. She'd healed herself, to a degree: she was out of immediate danger, for the most part, but it would take a great deal of rest, relaxation, and time for the grievous injury she'd sustained to completely repair itself.

But the explosive field of positive energy that she'd exuded had dropped Kifo, weakening him. And then, as the demon stood, slowly, no longer taking this victory for granted, he understood. He began to circle, again, fists raised, but still armed. He was evil… she was good.

This fight would not be easy.

This time, the bear circled, too. Not for long, though; she took advantage of any dizziness and confusion Kifo might be suffering from by moving, almost immediately. She didn't go in for a tackle, this time, and the demon had to duck, dodge, and block, as a flurry of awesomely powerful paw strikes attempted to reduce his flesh to hamburger meat.

His face was intent, though, his ears perked up as he retreated, step by step. Kishindo had trained him well—his steps were short, quick, decisive. He knew when to duck, when to sidestep, and when to use one of his paws to parry, redirecting his enemy's blows away, harmlessly.

He was good, the bear thought, primally, as Kifo ducked, but not good enough.

The demon had made an assumption. It was an assumption well supported by science—or, rather, the science that applied to his former home. His entire being was concentrated on the bear's surprisingly rapid punches and grab attempts—he hadn't conceived that she might use her legs.

Kifo had moved his legs apart, a little, lowering his torso so that the wide, arcing hook punch the bear had shot at him would sing, uselessly, well over his head. His black mane was ruffled by the force of the sudden motion… but the bear didn't retract her paw. She followed through on the motion, turning her body.

Too late, the demon understood what was happening. He attempted to stand, going for a knife with which to cut open his enemy's belly, but it was pointless.

Her knee struck him with enough force to raise him off the ground, so that he fell over, moaning, groaning, clutching his jaw. She lumbered away, limping, a little—Kifo's bones were _strong_.

There was no more mist. The sky was darkening, slowly, as if it had consolidated all the moisture in the Black Hills for a powerful assault; a rainstorm that would soak the northeastern land. Thunder rumbled, in the distance, and the charge collecting in the sky made Kifo's mane stick out, a little.

The demon wasn't down for too long, though. He stood, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a broken fang or two, and growled. Hate coursed through his veins, but still, he held.

The temptation to draw his rifle and perforate his enemy's head with neat holes was powerful, but Kifo knew that he could win this fight without weapons—because, right then, he was _training_. He could walk away, he was sure, and never, ever see another follicle of his enemy's fur.

This fight, though, this bear, was an opportunity… an opportunity to test out his combat skills. He could give his on-the-fly improvisation skills a work-out, and, if things really became desperate, he could always shoot her…

There was still anger, of course, and a thick, black desire for revenge—which, Kifo promised, would be sated. But these emotions were positive, in a sense; they were empowering. And to win this fight, the demon would need as much power as he could get.

"Pretty clever, bitch… gotta hand it to you. Never woulda seen a knee strike coming… all right. No mercy no more, bitch… no mercy," he sneered, circling, again.

The bear sneered right back, though, and, for a moment, the two combatants feinted, this way and that, trying to entice a response from the other. Kifo was quick, though, and knew when to hold his position, and parry, and when an actual attempt was made—at those points, he backed off.

His strategy wasn't set, though. It was doubtful that he could tire the bear out; shortly, he felt, she'd stop attacking, and let him come to her. By circling, though, constantly, Kifo could keep her on her toes… and not much else.

_"Damn,"_ Kifo thought, as he prepared an assault, _"things are never simple."_

There was no finesse, any more. The demon just advanced, suddenly, out of nowhere, and took advantage of his speed. No more pathetic parries and dodges, no more ducking and no more hiding. From here on out, the demon planned to be nothing but offensive.

Kifo's feet were as fast as his paws, and the thick muscles on his legs tightened with unnatural alacrity. His knees pistoned as, again and again, the instep of his foot drove into the bear's arm or rib, or head. Sometimes he would turn on his heel and lash out with a powerful stomp-kick that would knock him as well as his enemy apart.

The bear wasn't doing well at all, and, within minutes, she'd all but succumbed to the vicious offensive. Kifo was just too fast—she caught some of his blows, taking them to her shoulders and arms, but her scant defensive net allowed for most of the demon's deadly blows to pass through without contest.

She tried to attack back, as blood filled her blurring vision. Her breath grew ragged and harsh, thanks to the heavy damage her chest had sustained, and she stumbled backwards… but the assault continued.

Despite the speed of his blows, Kifo continued to apply pressure. Sweat dyed his fur darker, as his muscles began to cry out in protest—he couldn't hold up an attack of this speed, this magnitude, for long. Most of his fights, thus far, had been won by surprise or creativity; but Kifo was careful, now, to use only the most simple of strikes: because if he could beat a bear with only basic techniques… what he could do with real maneuvers and weapons was, all at once, awesome, and terrifying.

Her head snapped back from a vicious one-knuckle punch to her nose, the bear almost fell. But Kifo wasn't finished, and grabbed her by the neck, as his fist slammed, repeatedly, into her ribcage, until he heard a loud _crack_.

"COME ON! DON'T GIVE UP ON ME NOW, BITCH, COME ON! FIGHT BACK! F—"

Kifo was, suddenly, silent. The bear hung, limp in his paw—she wasn't dead, not yet, technically… but the amount of blood gushing from her body and the less-than-natural angle her head was tilted at said that she was beyond assistance.

Not that the demon was going to try to save her. The fight had been fun… but there were bigger fish to fry.

Still, as Kifo let go of his enemy, so that she fell to the ground, bouncing, once, before coming to rest, he had to admit… the fight had been fun. Tiring, but fun. He took in a long, deep breath… then sat down, himself.

Panting, he didn't bother to brush the thick, overhanging fur in front of his eyes aside. Sweat made his form slick, and fatigue rendered him, for a moment, too exhausted to lift his head.

_"Damn…"_ Kifo thought, blinking, raising a shaking paw, _"Fuck, I'm hungry… Kishindo… I hope you're okay. I know you wouldn't leave me for this long unless you were in trouble…"_

_"…Or, if you were up to something…"_

Time flies when you're having fun, but crawls when you're bored. Kifo's assault had been a lot longer than he'd thought, and he'd sat there, motionless, for only seconds, before a loud, cackling laugh tore through the Black Hills, just before a not-so-distant roar of thunder shook the Earth itself.

_"The fuck…?!"_

Carrying the bear cub by holding its neck scruff in her maw, Kishindo walked to Kifo, malicious pride in her eyes. She released the young being, and, to prevent him from escaping, struck him with her paw and held him down, rubbing his face into the dirt.

"Mind your place, young orphan… on the ground, submitting to the greatness of Kifo, as your mother has."

She was still alive. Barely, though; but she could still think, and see. And so, as her eyes met her child's for the last time, they leaked wetness that was lapped up by the hungry soil.

Growling, Kifo got to his feet, drawing his blade. He held it at his side, holding back the temptation to point it at the lioness who was calmly looking at him, grinning, still blatantly proud.

"The fuck is going on? You… watched all of this, and didn't help me? In fact—it was you that threw that bastard at me, wasn't it?" the demon said, jerking his head at the bear cub, who was groaning for mercy, "What the Hell is this, Kishindo…" he said softly, suddenly, suspicious, for the first time, of his mentor, "Tell me…"

"It was a test," the lioness said, stepping on the bear cub, then holding him down with her hind paw to rub her head against Kifo's thigh, "It was a test, and oh, my dear Kifo, you passed with _flying _colors. I knew you could handle yourself, Kifo, so I didn't step in. But trust me when I say this," she said seriously, looking up into the demon's hateful, untrusting eyes, "if I thought, for a second, that you were in any real danger, I would have stepped in."

"But you never were, Kifo! She gave you some trouble, I know, but in the end… heh. She's met her end, but your story is just beginning, my dear Kifo. You were great—you took her down without weapons, and, despite being injured, you didn't back down…"

"So brave," the lioness whispered, digging her claws into the bear cub's flesh to pull her forth, ignoring the way Kifo sat, heavily, refusing to meet her eyes, "so strong…" she purred. Still, though, the demon didn't look to her. So, she lifted the bear cub up in her paw.

"Kifo… you asked for something alive…

"Well…"

"This one is young, fresh, and _so_ alive…"

Slowly, the demon turned. His movements weren't lethargic, but he was tired—and so, they were heavy, and malicious. His eyes met the cub's dejected, hopeless expression… and he grinned, licking his teeth, casually drawing his knife.

"I call the tenderloins…"

* * *

"Hard work will be rewarded with freedom."

Two years ago, that statement had a meaning, a ring, to it. Foolishly, it was accepted as truth.

But after seven hundred backbreaking days of work, punctuated only by freezing cold nights spent either in the open or in hastily erected, minimalist shantytowns, it had sort of lost its zeal.

The Hell of it was that escape was an impossibility. Beatings were routine, and liberally applied: if the lions caught even a _rumor_ that a scheme was being brewed up, claws and paws were deployed.

They ruled with an iron fist. Their slaves were tied with roots of the hardy cacti that sprouted up, every few hundred meters, in an otherwise barren landscape. Weighted with chunks of dried, dead wood, they couldn't run, could scarcely walk… all they could do was dig, dig, dig in those damned mines until their paws were worn to the bone.

Bright…

It was bright.

_So_ bright.

The White Sands, as implied by its name, was a land of dunes and barren, cracked plains. Were there oases?... Yes, but they were few, and _far_ between. Control of these meager water sources meant control of the land itself, and, to ensure that they didn't run dry, many, many things had to be done, and perfectly.

Bright…

The Sun was high in the clear, cloudless sky. It tended to do that, just that; beat down, mercilessly, baking the White Sands. Mirages were common, as were sandstorms…

Hell couldn't possibly be too much hotter, either.

The heat was _dry_, though. The Lion Sheikh would liken it to his beloved Arizona, where a single gust of wind can dry a mouth, wicking away all moisture from a normal body.

They couldn't even keep their eyes open, more than a few degrees. So, half-blind to protect their sight from the sun and wind and sand, they dug, dejectedly, day after day after day, for years on end…

As always… the sun beat down. It flogged the White Sands, really, burning every molecule of air and Earth with unadulterated, harsh, rays.

White…

Blindingly white.

The sands were not like those of the Southern Desert, not that warm shade of tan like the soft fur of a lioness. They were white—_stark_ white and their particles fine. Sandstorms were deadly; those ubiquitous particles would fly up in a flurry and get everywhere, into everything; eyes, ears, nostrils, throats…

White…

At first glance, one could quite reasonably pass it off as a mirage.

For now, in the middle of the day, when the sun was at its peak, so that its incinerating rays shone down on everything, heat raves bounced, reflected, refracted off of everything.

But it wasn't a mirage. Not yet. The water, what little of it remained, released from a subterranean spring, was very nearly boiling. For most beings, it would be too hot to drink, but the lions of White Sands were well adapted to their environment.

There were trees, humorously; two of them. What shade they provided, though, was insignificant—the sand was still so hot and churned by the constant, slow wind that it _burned_ to the touch.

_Burned._

The water… it was leaving, strangely, at a rate faster than that of its boiling. But there was nothing around… was there? Nothing to drink it… no. The White Sands did not support animal life—the lions ate, of course, they had to; but their meat was killed in the Black Hills. They were an interesting bunch, the lions of the White Sands—they didn't hunt daily or every two or three days, as other prides did.

But every two weeks or so, they _assaulted_ the Black Hills. Sometimes they went no further than a kilometer in. Sometimes they almost found themselves in the Eastern Jungles. The males and cubs were left behind, of course, for the safety of the latter and so that the former could protect the White Sands. The females, though, the lionesses, as the real forces of the White Sands…

They were as brutal as they were beautiful.

Their light eyes—blue, yellow, lavender, or green—burned out from the slits of their large eyelids, striking fear into everything they met. Their bodies were slim and toned and _fast_. Though it couldn't be implied that they were nearly as adept at prolonged combat against larger, tougher foes as their males, they were shock-troops. They went into the Black Hills, and, within a day, were gone, leaving nothing but blood and destruction in their wake.

They were real hunters…

And real mothers and mates.

They were compassionate to their fellow pride members, their own flesh and blood, and harsh towards anything else.

Talk about ethnocentrism.

There wasn't much water left in the oasis, now, at all. It was still being… funneled? Lapped?... away, by a thus far unknown force. The heat was oppressive, and made it impossible to tell just what was going on.

Maybe, though, just maybe, if you were to walk forward, a few yards, right up to the oasis, and then circle around it, to view it from another angle… well, then, maybe, just maybe, you might be able to see a smallish, pink flap flick in and out of—

"Akane."

There was a pause. The soft _flit-flit_ that could be written off as the creaks of the nearby trees, or perhaps some miniscule, unseen lizard was gone.

"Akane… there's none left, son. What are you attempting to do? Polish the waterbed?"

It was still white… so, so white that it hurt for most to open their eyes, fully. And yet, if you positioned yourself just right, and squinted, ignoring the heat waves shimmering from everything… then, you might be able to see a slight outline, a profile, a silhouette even, move.

"…I'm sorry, Father. Just… I'm so thirsty…"

If you were looking just right—the Lion Sheikh must impress upon you how difficult this is to do—but if you managed it, if you really concentrated, then you might see something more. You might see a few telltale black markings or orifices, if the blinding sun and the heat and its shimmering, dancing waves didn't force you to cover your eyes with your hands.

"Mm… well, don't be so improper, son. What are you, a leopard, a slave, to lick at the ground? Show some class. You are, after all, son of Amir, alpha male of the lions of the White Sands… and heir imminent to that position, and the responsibilities it entails."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"Mm. And don't worry about your thirst—we'll work the leopards until midnight, today. Their digs have, for the past few weeks, been entirely unsuccessful. This can't last, son, or the Northeast Deities will shut off more and more of the resources that keep us alive, son, because, to them, we have been doing just the same. It's an embarrassment—it truly is—to go to them, at the end of the week, without my paws full with gold, diamonds, gems. You don't understand that, though."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"You don't understand that because you're too soft. Don't deny it—I've caught you looking at the leopards with—don't dare repeat this to anyone else, or you and I will be shamed right out of White Sands—_pity_. That's disgraceful."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"You're soft, son. And, for better or for worse, softness is _not_ a characteristic that this pride needs. Least of all in its leader."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"You don't have guts. You say sorry… but if you truly were sorry, you would slice open the paws of leopard cubs when they beg for rest and water and food. But you don't, son. You show them pity."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"You're pitiful."

A pause.

"…I'm sorry, F—"

"Don't say that again."

That voice—tougher, deeper, more mature—was sharp and curt. You can't love someone who's forged their voice to reflect their mentality like that without fearing them a little, too. Maybe even being disgusted with them.

"Don't be so apologetic. Acknowledge your inadequacies, then move forward. There's no use in wallowing in guilt. Be a man, son… be a man."

There was another pause. The wind kicked up, though, a little, but it was from the _south_, from the Black Hills. Silence reigned for a moment...

Then, father and son, two powerfully-built white lions, one still a small juvenile, moved. The younger one, the son, had chiseled, brooding features, while his father had a rougher, warlike face. Their camouflage was almost perfect—they walked along, more or less invisibly, tracking pugmarks behind them as they headed to the northeast.

Akane, the son, was silent. In spite his father's attempts to induce conversation by extolling the power and righteousness of their pride, he still didn't speak. He closed his eyes for a long moment, shutting out his father's words, and pulled some energy out from the rest of the world, and redirected it, internally.

He wasn't strong-minded, as his father had always suspected. His attempts at meditation were largely unsuccessful, because no matter where he went in the White Sands, he couldn't escape the feeling that something was wrong. This was a feeling he'd held for most of his life… but in recent months, it had only gotten more palatable, like the bitter aftertaste of low-quality dark chocolate. To avoid a similar aftertaste, the Lion Sheikh recommends buying decent chocol—

…Akane wasn't strong-minded, but what he lacked for in willpower and mental fortitude, he made up for with fighting prowess. He was young, but, in a serious breach of tradition that had made the elders of the White Sands arch their eyebrows and whisper out of earshot of Amir, he'd been trained in the combat arts by both his mother and his father.

It had been a consensual decision. Aisha had been reluctant, at first, and consulted with her peers. Aside from some traditionalists, they seemed agreeable—the consensus was that any loss of masculinity due to trading time with his father for time with his mother would be made up by sheer combat aptitude.

And, in a way, they were right. Akane was a juvenile, but already, he could, at will, defeat most any White Sands lioness in single combat. In training, groups of two or even _three_ sometimes attacked him, and, for a time, he could hold his own. He still couldn't take on his father, alone, but the juvenile had plenty of growing and maturing ahead of him.

He wasn't rough and muscled, like Kovu had been prior to his spiritual trip with Rafiki, or Simba. His build could be compared to Freak's, before his exile, but even that was too bulky. The li-tigon's build had been slim, toned, and reasonably muscular, but Akane's as like a knife—crafted from steel and forged in fire, and tough as nails. He was skinny, due to a tendency to pick at his food, almost unhealthily so, but he was _tough_. Though aristocratic and prosperous, the lions of the White Sands were not fat cats—their days consisted of training, overseeing their slaves, and, every fortnight, conquest.

The White Sands' rulers weren't particularly kind to an only child.

Akane was tough. That can hardly be overstated. But it could be clarified.

He was tough… in the sense that he could run a mile before a spurt of water from an underground spring could totally vaporize, he could reduce a palm tree to splinters with his bare paws (metaphorically), and he could wrestle the most powerful lioness in his pride, his mother, to the ground consistently.

But…

He was _gentle_.

It was one of nature's paradoxes. Though capable of flattening any enemy he might encounter on the battlefield, he couldn't—just _couldn't_—do battle with another living being. It was, for him, unthinkable.

In fact, a month or so before, Amir and Aisha had, again, breached tradition. Instead of leaving Akane in the White Sands with his father, they'd sent him with his mother and the rest of the lionesses into the Black Hills. He was supposed to be a leader, an example for them to rally around. But when they came across their first enemy, their first obstacle, a bear that had broken its leg and failed to escape… he didn't fight. He didn't make a speech, he didn't posture, and he didn't extol the virtues of the righteous White Sands pride, decrying the residents of the Black Hills as inferior and impure.

He didn't even stand his ground.

He _cowered_.

Now, let's be fair: Akane was smaller than his enemy.

Smaller.

That was his sole disadvantage.

He was stronger and faster and smarter and more trained than his opponent.

But he wouldn't—_couldn't_—fight.

He didn't run in total cowardice, thankfully. But when approached by the enraged bear, he didn't attack—he roared, threateningly… but then backed off.

That day, the White Sands had very nearly lost some lionesses in the Black Hills.

Akane was a leader, or, he was supposed to be. His parents were both incredibly dominant individuals, and they'd bred and raised their son to be the same.

What was maddening about Akane was that he seemed to _get_ everything they said to him, about ruling with an iron fist when necessary, about kindness and making tough decisions. He just couldn't do it.

His parents didn't know why, but the young lion had a hunch.

It struck him in the gut every single day—even now, as he finally opened his eyes, so that those narrow slits of blue, deep blue, pure blue, so blue that to look into them was t bathe in the cascades of the waterfall from the Jungle that fed the Southern Desert—even now, it struck him, hard.

Guilt's invisible hand clutched at Akane's innards as he forced himself to look upon his people's… slaves…

_"Spirits…"_

_"…I'm… I'm sorry. I should be stronger—I know that since I was born as a lion, I'm superior to the leopards…"_ Akane thought, as his father lifted a weight with his powerful jaws, so that a troop of weary elders moved to excavate a new portion of the White Sands. _"But… it hurts to watch them. It hurts. It hurts inside. I'm strong on the outside, but, as my father says, weak on the inside."_

The juvenile paused, for a moment, and just watched, willing himself not to feel sympathy.

_"I know that you allow for slavery in extenuating circumstance like this—you can't protect us entirely from the evils of the world, so we must protect ourselves. We must find treasure to appease the Lesser Gods in order to live—we must."_

_"And yet…_

_"…And yet…"_

_"It's hard."_

The earth in front of him had been opened up. The White Sands weren't perfectly flat, but they were close to it. Artificial gouges like this were the exception.

Akane stepped forward, a few feet, and peered down, twenty feet down. The earth gradually grew less white and more tan, and even brown, as his gazed dropped. It was still baked, though; it was hot and hard and _tough_ to work with.

And yet, inside that hole, into which sand and sun poured, there were perhaps two dozen leopards toiling, working, scraping away at the earth with their bare paws.

Thankfully, Akane couldn't see their faces. But he didn't need to; he knew he'd see on them.

Despair…

Oh, not just any despair, mind you. Not a temporary emotion, not a feeling, not a thought—a state of mind that became so intrinsic to the being of a leopard slave that it was etched onto their face.

Despair.

Despair and hopeless; complete hopelessness.

It hurt to see a face like that, but what hurt more was to know the cause of it… and to tolerate that cause.

But what could Akane do? His paws were tied; he had to follow the word of his father, and he had to appease the Lesser Gods with treasure. The Spirits tolerated slavery; they had to. It was a necessary ev—no. Both of his parents had never allowed him to think that—slavery wasn't evil. It was just a less enjoyable part of life. That's all. It was natural and righteous. It was moral, and it was necessary.

But still.

Akane looked to his side, forcibly keeping his face blank. A captured leopard had given birth, not a week ago, and now, its child was learning to walk right in front of him. It stumbled, a little, almost falling into the hole excavated into the White Sands, but righted itself… and smiled.

It _smiled_.

Despite the hopelessness it had been born to, it smiled.

Akane twitched… but, as the newborn cub approached him, reacted perfectly.

As Amir looked on, his son lifted a paw, and slapped that smile cleanly off of the cub's pudgy, dappled face.

The juvenile's face was stone-like as he stood over the cub, leering down at him. His shadow cooled the baby leopard, basking his fluffy, innocent form in darkness.

The leopard blinked, repeatedly, trying to clear his vision—it was hard; his eyes had only opened a few days back. And he'd been hit hard, so hard that he'd fallen, and was splayed out across the White Sands themselves.

It was hot.

Very, very, very hot.

Heat waves glanced off of everything, penetrated everything, roasted, baked, broiled everything.

Akane's family, though, had lived in the White Sands for generations. This was his ancestral home, and he was as much a son of this land as he was of his father.

_"Then… why… do my insides feel like sandpaper…?"_

_"Why do I hurt…?"_

* * *

Juvenile years.

Such an interesting time. You make relationships, then, that don't fade no matter how old you live to be. The Hell of it is that you're not yet mature enough to understand the gravity of your actions—the Lion Sheikh apologizes for being so blunt towards his readers.

Accept the truth, though. Friends, enemies; it doesn't matter. The nerd you pick on for not having a clique of his own can phase into your life again, thirty years later, and rub his brand hew Benz in your face, for example.

The Pride Lands were no different, even, all those years back, in the time of Mufasa, Taka—or, now, Scar; Sarabi, Sarafina… and Zira.

Mufasa and Sarabi and their accursed little pawns were the jocks; the football players and cheerleaders. Scar, Zira, and the others… they were the outcasts.

It was terrible. Mufasa, by day, would badmouth his brother to the excited, euphemistic giggles of his female "friends", but, by night, was the one next to that same brother's side. And when he was sent out to run an errand, check out a disturbance, or execute some other task; when the females couldn't come due to custom or hunting, his brother was his first, last, and only choice.

Mufasa might be crown prince and Scar might be nothing but trash, but they were still brothers. And despite the ridicule Mufasa's friends shot at him—no doubt, due to the role model set by their future king, their alpha male—Scar was loyal and helpful to the core.

Usually.

Several times, Mufasa had caught his inferior brother rolling his eyes, or perhaps, sticking up a certain digit.

Once or twice, the tan lion hadn't half-murdered his dark sibling.

Scar, though, despite his disturbing tendencies to defiance or insubordination couldn't—no, _wouldn't_ stand up for himself. Don't misunderstand: he was masculine. Just… not in the in-your-face, do-as-I-say-or-eat-a-knuckle sandwich way that Mufasa was.

Scar saw the beauty of the relationship he had with his brother, or, at least, wanted to have with his brother. Uru was gone, by then, and it was only due to her dying wishes that Scar wasn't cast out, alone—because despite the grudging trust they placed in him, Ahadi and Mufasa…

… did not love him.

Well… Ahadi didn't.

Maybe Mufasa did. _Maybe_.

And it was that vague glimmer of hope that made Scar sit up, glare, and, in harsh, curt words, tell what friends he had to shut up when they spoke ill of his brother. It was also that foolish hope that made him go out, that day, at the request of his brother, alone, to the northwest…

The Forbidden Island was, of course, buffered from the Pride Lands by the wide band of rushing, clear water that fed the Western Grasslands. But… it wasn't safe. It never had been. That's why, years later, Rafiki would construct a raft to pass it safely, rather than risking a swim.

But Scar did as he was told. What else can you expect? After all, who knew… maybe this time, maybe after this display of solidarity and loyalty… maybe then, Mufasa would come to love him; or, rather, display the love he felt for him.

Who knew?

Zira, though, was smarter than that. Scar had told her, of course, through a message-courier, a bird, to move along with the rest of the outcast lionesses, to reconnoiter the pride's hunting grounds to the south.

So, as a good lieutenant… Zira had done as she was told… mostly.

"You heard what he said," she'd said, locking eyes with all dozen or so of Scar's followers, who would later form the personality cult around their beloved leader, then be exiled for it, then be welcomed back with open arms in a wondrous act of forgiveness, "go. Check out the hunting grounds to the south, before Mufasa's sluts do it. GO!"

The shout wasn't necessary. By the time Zira's sentence was half-finished, the lionesses had gotten up, assembled, and, already, were moving out. They weren't just hunters and chatty juvenile females, they were remarkably disciplined shock troops—Scar's own personal army.

They knew their loyalties, and knew them well: they were to Scar, and, therefore, to his lieutenant and certain future mate, Zira. And so, as they double-timed it to the south, maintaining silence and formation, they kept that in mind, as well as the face of their leader… that mutilated, slender face; those lemon-lime eyes… that calm, confident sense of control and power…

Zira allowed herself a satisfied smirk as her subordinates moved out. Her expression darkened, though, becoming serious, as she turned. She moved, silently, though the tall, dry grass that she and her friends were allowed, and hopped up onto a squat rock.

Hawklike, she peered out over the Pride Lands, tail twitching, slightly, as she struck a noble posture. Her eyes peered over the landscape, scouring, searching for something…

And, eventually, she was successful.

_"She's good. I'm glad she's on our side,"_ Zira thought, smiling, a little, and giving a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Her eyes had met another lioness's. Zira had almost missed them; those black and green-rimmed pupils were the only part of Sarafina that she could find, these days.

No additional signals were needed; Zira only needed to do that when she had orders to pass along to Scar's trump card. Sarafina nodded back, though, and backed away, disappearing into the scorched blades.

Zira was alone, now. Scar's open supporters had gone south, Sarafina had gone east… and Scar had gone to the Northwest, alone.

Not for long.

Because, the second Zira was certain that she wasn't being surveyed by Ahadi's annoying majordomo or some other, less conspicuous spy, she was off.

The lioness dashed, fast, her spine extending and retracting, repeatedly, as her paws pressed against the ground before shoving off, again, propelling her forwards. Her face, generally vaguely pissed off or discontent, was now determined… and a little worried.

_"Why would they send him to the Forbidden River? They'd never, ever usually entrust something that important to him, not in a hundred years. Fool—he's too trusting of them, in spite of their treatment."_

Zira growled at herself, angry that she'd thought ill of Scar, and moved faster. She bounded over hills and streams, panting, eventually, as she entered the barren northwest…

There wasn't much plant life here at all. No tall grasses, no trees, no shrubs… just prickly crabgrass or bare dirt, punctuated, here and there, by boulders.

Up and over the next rise, Zira found him. There he was; walking in that cool, balanced saunter, plumey black mane whipped this way and that by the wind.

Silence…

Moveme—no. Silence…

Nothing was happening.

Scar was patrolling the shore, where the Forbidden River met lend, without difficulty. Zira had taken cover behind a large, slate rock, and peeked out, now and then, to ensure that Scar was alright. She didn't trust Ahadi and Mufasa for a second, even if Scar did.

But, as minutes crawled by, compounding, becoming hours… she had to wonder if they were as poor strategists as they were family members. Nothing was happening, still.

It wasn't rainy and it wasn't sunny. Above, the skies were overcast; they always were, around the Forbidden Island. But nothing, really, was amiss…

That all changed in a split-second.

Zira was almost sleeping; resting her chin on the boulder, eyes drooping as lethargy took hold. But then, Scar yelled—her eyes shot open, as her adrenaline poured into her system.

She couldn't see what was going on, not exactly, not from where she was. But you don't need 20/20 vision to see that huge, gray shape, thrashing and struggling, not two feet from Scar.

The dark lion had jumped aside, though—barely. But, unlike any other sane lion, he didn't run and didn't strike back.

He just stood there, ears erect, muscles clenched in case he really did have to escape. He stood, and watched, from a distance far, far too small, as the… thing… snapped its jaws, still hungry for him.

His face was stoney, claws extended, legs still coiled in preparation for speed. But he didn't—

"Idiot! Get away!"

Scar turned, or tried to, but it was too late. His attention was held, exclusively, by the monstrosity that had beached itself in an attempt on his life, and so, he didn't hear the telltale _thwap, thwapping_ sounds of a lioness's rapid approach.

The dark lion wasn't a fighter, there was no point in denying it. He wasn't a wimp, though, and in a square, face-to-face battle, he might have been a match for Zira. But the lioness was a hunter—she knew how to pounce, how to stalk and tackle, and Scar made her focus more than any prey animal ever could.

Maybe he wouldn't appreciate that just then, though. One can hardly blame him—he was taken off his feet, launched into the air, held, tumbled, and then pinned, only to stare at the wet, snarling maw of an enraged lioness.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing? That beast almost—almost _ate_ you! And yet, you stood, and _stared_? Scar—your life's not valuable to you, but it is to… me. I don't want to lose you, Scar… so please…"

The dark lion's wits slowly started to return. It occurred to him that, for the umpteenth time, he was on his back, held down by the surprisingly strong paws of his second-in-command.

Zira's aggression and anger had shifted, quickly, to relief… and guilt. Though she hung her head, then looked away, purposefully, biting her lip, tinges of pink appearing on her cheeks, she didn't let Scar up, even as that… huge, deadly… thing, flopped its way back into the Forbidden River.

"Ah, Zira…" the lion said, eventually, in that distinctive, unsettling tone of his, that made Zira's heart flutter, that made her feel, or hope to feel, the burn of his eyes against her, "I appreciate you, a lot."

The lioness blinked, and, despite the more pronounced blush she sported, felt suspicion. Scar was cushioning the blow sure to fall, in only the way he could.

"I do. It's nice to know that, wherever I go, I'll always be watched on by a silent guardian… even if," he said, his voice transitioning, seamlessly, from adoration to venom in the space of a second, "it means that I don't have a moment's privacy, and that my requests are outright defied—come. Get up," he smiled sweetly, "or I might not be so appreciative of your nosiness…" he added in a coy, chastising manner.

Instantly, Zira realized that she hadn't yet released the dark male. She nodded, curtly, and hastily got up, jumping off, before sitting, several feet away, tail curled around her paws, as she licked at her collarbone, trying to nonchalantly evade attention.

Scar glared at her, for a moment; she felt his eyes and the frustration behind him… and yet, he said nothing. Wordlessly, he turned, and began to walk away… then paused, before Zira could look after him in sadness, and jerked his head for her to take his side.

All too quickly she did.

He looked rather dully straight ahead, and the lioness attempted to speak, several times; each time, rendered dumb by the cold, independent manner in which Scar walked on, regardless of everything, of every_one_, except for a few that, for whatever insane reason, he held dear.

In the end, it was he who spoke, so softly and unexpectedly that Zira had almost jumped at hearing that rolling, purring voice that still made her fur stand on end every time she heard it.

"Zira… I appreciate you. You're a great friend, but… sometimes, you need to learn to back off."

Then, he'd turned, looking at her with a resigned expression.

"There are some battles we must fight, some lessons we must learn… with_out_ others."

Then, he'd continued, tufted tail low, steady; confident yet sad, like a captured warrior waiting for his chance to rise up, and again, shine.

Several seconds later, Zira had rushed to catch up, and, taking advantage of the soft, padding sounds of her footsteps, whispered back.

"Then, Scar, perhaps the lesson you need to learn is that you need to be without others… or, rather, _some_ others…"

He didn't hear that, or, at least, acted like he didn't. He kept walking, his head slowly lowering—Ahadi would never believe his report, and yet, if he didn't deliver it and another one of those deadly monsters appeared… he'd be killed, no two ways about it.

Zira's face twisted into an all too common snarl. Rage was her life; she'd grown up to it, achieved strength and influence from it, and, someday, she'd die from it. But then—just then—for the first time, her bitterness, her anger, her resentment had a specific target…

Her name was Zira—hate. And then, for the first time, her mind worked, subconsciously, to act on the meaning of her name…

* * *

"Y'know, Kishindo…"

"You're great. I like you, I really do, you're a great teacher... not bad company, either…"

"But seriously. Sometimes, you gotta fuck off. Cut a man some slack. I could've died."

They were reclining, now, the refuse of their meal cast aside, several yards away. Their maws and teeth were still bloodied, and, slowly, savoring the flavor, they started to lick themselves clean.

"That's true," the lioness admitted, eventually, "but the only way to grow is to challenge yourself. And don't be modest, Kifo—you took your enemy apart. She didn't have a change."

The demon gave a noncommittal grunt… but, something about him, a slight change in his body language, said that he was, indeed, a little proud of himself. Kishindo smirked, a little, then sighed.

"It's going to rain a lot very soon," the lioness said, reluctantly getting to her feet, brushing past Kifo slightly, "we should find shelter."

"Bullshit…" Kifo said, though, he stood, flicking his knife out to lick it, too, eyes burning into the lioness as he ran his tongue along its blade, "it's been cloudy since we got here, and it's been raining on and off pretty much 24/7. How do you know it's gonna rain, Zira? Are your old bones aching?" he jibed, grinning, cruelly, before winking, a little.

The lioness didn't need to speak. She just gave the demon an exasperated look, not entirely impressed with his joke, and positioned herself, just so, watching as he obsessively checked his weapons.

There was a slight, distant rumble of thunder, and, as Kifo looked up, realizing, too late, that he was positioned just under a rare, slight gap in cover, the rain came down in _buckets_. Though the demon was only exposed to the direct torrent of water for a second, that one second drenched him so thoroughly that long, grizzled tendrils of his charcoal mane dripped rainwater onto the soft, fertile soil of the Black Hills.

Kishindo hadn't completely avoided getting wet, of course, but at least she wasn't sopping wet, unlike Kifo. The demon's lip twitched, and he gave the lioness a somewhat sardonic look—she didn't need to say thing, he was embarrassed enough as it was.

So, she took pity on him, and just shook her head, in a motherly manner, then jerked it, turning, to lead him to the east.

"Come. I saw a mountain in that direction coming in… it shouldn't be too far, and it'll give us much-needed cover," she said. A difference in electric potential made her fur, and his, stand on end, slightly dancing with energy waiting to be discharged. The wind kicked up, rather suddenly, so that it was raining sideways; even Kishindo couldn't keep dry now.

Their steps were urgent. Kifo wasn't harmed by climate; well, presumably, since he had, after all, held his breath for hours before. His mentor, though, his teacher and friend… she wasn't as young as she once was, and though shockingly fit, such weather wasn't good for her. She was a tawny, short-furred lioness, not a leopard with the advantage of a thick coat and streetsmarts in the Black Hills.

There were no streams, no rivulets of water, mostly. Depressions in the landscape caused sudden, churning torrents of liquid that rushed through the Black Hills, rumbling, roaring, pouring.

A sudden explosion of lightning—loud, and close—made Kishindo and, to a lesser degree, Kifo—jump in surprise.

They no longer moved with mere urgency.

Kishindo sprinted, and, behind her, Kifo thundered along. She turned, a little, and had to yell, despite the demon's proximity, to be heard about the rainstorm.

"I don't think it's too much farther… just keep running, Kifo, and—Aah!"

The lioness had mistepped, a little. The ground was yielding and, due to the sudden influx of water, not at all stable. That, coupled with her speed and the fact that she'd turned to speak to her companion had set up a disaster that would have sent Kishindo slipping and sliding, directly into a suddenly created river.

She'd fought water once, and won. But even the defiant lioness knew that it was too much to hope to do again…

But a powerful limb wrapped around her torso, under the arms. She struggled, for a moment, trying to regain her foot, kicking in fear of the torrent not two feet from her, but it was no use; she was being sucked in, she couldn't fight back, she wasn't strong enough, she was dead—

Then, all at once, a growl from just behind her, so loud and close that it took over her senses, for a long second made her freeze. She quit squirming, and that gave Kifo the chance to pull, hard, yanking her out of harm's way.

He was just on time, because, a moment later, the flow of water _increased_. If Kishindo had been caught in that, there wouldn't be even a prayer for her. There was no time for her to be thankful, and she and Kifo knew that. They just got up, and, without speaking or making any more foolish mistakes, leaped over the river, and ran on.

The cloudburst was sudden and unexpected, but was almost certainly unsustainable. That was some comfort to the duo, as they sprinted along through the Black Hills, rain dashing against their faces so hard that it almost wore them off.

Visibility was low, if above zero at all. The clouds had thickened, blocking out the sun even more than they usually did. The wind and rain were _fierce_; almost hurricane force. The plant life of the Black Hills resisted, though, and its animals, Kifo sensed, took shelter in small cracks and crevices or, in the case of larger beings, in dens, stony shelters, or caves.

The forest didn't break as the ground under their feet suddenly sloped. Kishindo adjusted her momentum carefully, conserving as much of her inertia is possible, to smoothly start to run up the tough grade of the rock face. Kifo followed her, without difficulty—he had dexterous paws that he implemented to clamber up and over obstacles, shutting his eyes when they turned to the sky.

He was chilled to the bone, but the demon knew that his discomfort couldn't possibly compare to Kishindo's. The lioness had survived a flood, that was true; but though there was plenty of water involved, that flood, she'd admitted, wasn't nearlny as significant in terms of volume flow rate as the Black Hills' miniature flooding.

Kishindo had been tough, in the Forests of the Far East. She'd ignored her sudden, deep fear of water, focusing on revenge, survival, and getting back to the Pride Lands. But then, she'd found Kifo… and that ironclad exterior had shifted, or cracked, allowing some of her carefully concealed secrets past.

That's why the lioness's movements were frenzied. Her face twisted with fear, she climbed, faster yet, never daring to slow down. She'd fallen down from tough, rocky faces before, into water, and that was an experience she had _no_ intentions of repeating.

Despite Kifo's dexterity, Kishindo was beating him. He'd fallen behind, a little, and, as the lioness came to a flat cutout into the mesa, she exhaled, explosively, in relief, as her eyes found a cave.

Her first instinct was to get in and curl up, shaking, holding her soaked, freezing form. And though she jumped off to do just that… she stopped herself, and turned away from the cave.

Every instinct screaming at her to do otherwise, the lioness not only went to that desperately slippery outcropping, but she looked over.

Kifo was stuck. She hadn't had problems at that particular portion of the climb, since, when she'd shot up it, there weren't two small waterfalls forming a V, isolating Kifo's position from other handholds.

Not even the muscled demon would be able to hold on if he attempted to cross through the falls. His own grip was becoming less and less reliable, as he became white-knuckled—water here in the Black Hills lubricated everything.

He looked up, so that his dark gaze met Kishindo's. He could fall. He could—he'd be injured, yes, but… well, he'd _probably _live. And if Kishindo did anything stupid to try to rescue him, she'd be putting herself in danger, too. She wasn't a social worker or rescue operative; she was a military commander, trainer, and warrior. She wasn't qualified to help Kifo.

And yet, the demon was running out of time.

The wind kicked up, howling into Kishindo's ears, as if trying to whisper advice into her eyes. Her harsh eyes shut, for a moment, as she considered. Despite the precariousness of her position, she managed to calm, a little. She sat, thinking as rapidly as possible, as Kifo extended his claws in a last-ditch effort to secure himself to the cliff side.

Her posture was rigid, tight-assed, but remarkably powerful. Her profile could have been described as harshly picturesque, but now, in the cloudburst, she looked grizzled, battered, and _wild_. She didn't look she was considering saving anyone; her resentful gaze was 100% serious—as always.

Kifo, apparently, agreed with the sentiment he saw on his companion's face. He was snarling, but what else was new? The rain continued to pour down, to, with the wind, batter him, attempting to pry him from the rocky slope, form safety, from Kishindo.

_"Heh. I'm getting' soft…"_

There was no point in denying it, though. Kishindo had been a mentor, a trainer, a guide, a friend, a big sister, a mother to him for more than just some time, now.

He was fond of her.

And it was sad to consider the possibility that he might never see the one with whom he'd done so much, yet had so much left to do, with.

Ah well.

Life had been Hell. The post-life existence was fun, but… it was wearing on Kifo. His bloodlust was harder and harder to sate each time he killed; it was a self-destructive process. Unless the world consistently offered him tougher and tougher challenges… Kifo was killing himself as surely as he was killing other living beings. He was as much of a plague to himself as he was to the Land of the Spirits at large.

Ah well.

He'd died once, before, and it hadn't been unbearable. Maybe this time, he'd die for real, and… …who knew. Who knew? What was in store for Kifo if he died? Heaven, Hell, or something else entirely? And what if he lived—he was watching Kishindo abandon him, even as he struggled to cling to life. He'd never be able to be around her again—he' d lose his temper, sooner or later, and his greater need for blood could easily be her death sentence.

Ah well.

The demon took one final, long look at Kishindo.

_"So powerful, so dominant… So willing to accept me… so smart. …It's been fun, Kishindo, and… who knows. Maybe I'll see you in the next… whatever."_

Kifo wasn't a deep thinker. He couldn't be, because if he was, any brand of logic would lead him to suicide…

So he shrugged, and quit trying to distract himself with useless predictions about the future. There was no point, and he was only prolonging the inevitable—he wasn't getting out of his.

Kifo realized how tired he was. Four hours of sleep each day, training from dawn till dusk, only a little food, and herbal supplements to make him bigger, stronger, faster, better.

He was tired of existence. And, for a second, as the last of his fingers lost traction on the basalt face of his grip, he admitted to himself that his whole scheme for revenge, his entire goal in death was idealistic and unattainable. He was "living" because… well, shit, he had nothing better to do.

It was with that thought that Kifo finally let go. He'd survive, or he wouldn't; it was of little consequence to him. He'd survive and keep killing, or he'd die, and that would be the end of his suffering. Maybe Hell wouldn't be so bad.

_"Heh. The fuck am I thinking about this for? …Heh. Nothing better to do…"_

He was grabbed, though, before he fell a yard.

It was dangerous to the point of insanity. Kishindo had gotten off the safety of the outcropping, and circled around, trying to get an angle with which to access the demon.

It was hard. But she managed to flatten herself against the rock's face, relatively secure.

Kifo's arms flailed, a little, when he fell—that was her opening. She lunged forward, wedging her paw in a rock crevice, and _bit_ her companion.

The demon, of course, felt pain as those frightening daggers popped into, then out of, his fur, skin, muscle, bone. It wasn't bad, though, they were too sharp to really kill—erm, metaphorically.

That was the Hell of it, though. Kishindo had gotten a good bite on Kifo: her jaws had closed on his paw, but that wasn't helping, too much. The demon was heavy, you see, and though he hadn't built up much momentum in the first milliseconds of his fall, he had enough mass for gravity to pull on him, hard.

Kishindo managed to control the situation, a little, by tugging backwards. This made Kifo flop and swing like a pendulum, for a minute, held by his paw. He bounced against the mesa's face, once or twice, and hissed in hate, trying, again, to claw or clamber his way to safety; fed by pain, now, as well as a more specific purpose.

But his claws, like Kishindo's teeth, might have been a little _too_ sharp. He was slashing the rock, exerting almost no force on himself, and she… she was biting, hard, but Kifo was slipping anyway, her teeth slicing through his flesh.

The demon groaned, and turned up to Kishindo. Fortunately, she didn't meet his hateful eyes; she was too busy—if she did, though, she would forget everything decent she'd conceived about her companion, and leave…

Seeing eyes in him like that was great… as long as they weren't directed at her.

Then, though, inspiration struck. Kishindo tilted her jaw, as Kifo's knuckles came to the inexorable path of her teeth. The demon himself sensed that something was being done, and clenched his fist, so that he wouldn't fall.

The flesh wounds would be long-lasting and painful. A cut is one thing, and so is a stab, but a prolonged… _butchery_ like this… Kifo might be scarred for the rest of his existence, and his paw was out of commission for a while, anyway.

He'd live, though. He would. Kishindo refused to release, so he managed to get a grip on the mesa again, despite its immeasurable slipperiness

Still, the lioness didn't let go, and pulled on the demon, hard, in case _he_ was again considering release. Slowly but surely, Kifo clawed himself up, over a waterfall. His paw was mangled and bleeding heavily by the time he was out of imminent danger, but that was still their last concern.

The rain and wind were still vicious. And, where they were, they could easily—all too easily—be flung off by the storm. Things weren't yet winding down, though the downpour had lasted for perhaps a quarter of an hour already.

But they were careful, and they were cautious, as they moved up the slope. Once they reached level ground, they dashed into the cave. Kifo drew his GLOCK, yes, but his erratic, shaky motions meant that he'd done a poor job of clearing it.

Still, Kishindo sniffed, and he sensed nothing living in the cave. They were panting, chests rising and falling rapidly and greatly, as they sat down, heavily, shivering, too out of it to shake water from their fur. The cave was dark and a little dusty, but it offered great protection from the wind and rain.

They were shivering, taking in deep ragged breaths, side by side, as they finally started to dry themselves, and each another, off. Ears flattened to protect their hearing from the thunder and air pressure outside, they suddenly stopped moving… and hugged, tightly.

There were no words exchanged, and few emotions, either. There was no mistrust, now, on either end, and no self-imposed repression—it was all unadulterated…w ell, certainly not love, it was doubtful that either participant was capable of that. But there was affection, and a lot of it.

The embrace wasn't prolonged. Neither Kifo nor Kishindo was even vaguely unsure about how the other felt, and neither was even slightly insecure—they didn't need to know that they were cared about… but God, it was nice.

The demon sucked in a few slow breaths, arm draped over his companion's body. It was suddenly drizzling—the cloudburst had finished. The Black Hills were soaked, but already, the near-flash floods had diminished. The sky was dark, grey, dreary, but, to Kifo, welcoming.

The demon grinned, quietly, his shoulders jostling. And, a minute later, Kishindo joined him.

And then, a minute later, their twin outcries of mirth echoed in the cave, and out of it, to slowly dissipate, penetrating _miles_ of the Black Hills.

This land was tough, but it was manageable, and _so_ satisfyingly challenging. Kifo and Kishindo had every intention of using it as a training ground before moving on to the White Sands, and then, at last, out of the Land of the Spirts, and back to the land of men…

The demon had, indeed, forgotten the sheer idiocy of his end goal already. That, or the fact that he'd survived the storm had given him arrogance, or confidence, depending on your ta—opinion.

Regardless—they were safe, they were together, and the bonds they'd formed over the past weeks had now been cast in iron. The leopards of the Black Hills wouldn't be able to stand up to them. Would the lions of the White Sands be able to?

Would Freak…?

* * *

(Review if you're still with me. See you next chapter.)


	9. Homeland II: Easy, Right?

The Lion King: My Name

Chapter 9: Homeland II: Easy, Right?

* * *

(Sorry for the long delay. My Name is not an easy story to write.)

* * *

There's a fine line between tough and crazy.

Zira flirted with it.

Kishindo crossed it.

No longer, though, did Kifo sneer at her words, and only follow her "suggestions" reluctantly. Now, when the lioness told him to do something, whether it was do pushups, pull-ups, sit-ups, or run, he jumped to it.

The lack of mistrust between the pair was startling; their operation on a near telepathic level. Kifo's training was harsh and merciless, but Kishindo's was hardly better. She was an aging lioness by any standard, but her training gave her the body of a cat in her prime.

Freak's training was emotionless, pragmatic, and offered little reward other than sullen acknowledgment.

Kishindo and Kifo were different. They praised and congratulated each another, showing appreciation and affection with strokes and nuzzles. The added motivation made them train even harder—within days, Kishindo was stronger than her long-time rival and archenemy, Sarabi.

Kifo, though... was a monster.

Now towering at a whopping eight feet tall, he was certainly a sight to behold. Like his muscles, Kifo's clothes had thickened and hardened, becoming so tough that they were nigh impenetrable.

His training, of course, wasn't exclusively physical—that would be a waste of the powerful dark energy he held within him. It took a lot of effort—a lot. But now, the demon could conjure up weapons—knives, pistols—within a second. More serious weapons such as rifles took more effort, but everything was becoming easier, more natural.

Now, the demon could take on Kishindo in a fight. Towards one another, they showed mercy, but not much. Kifo's face bore scars from the lioness's claws, and Kishindo's body had been bruised by the demon's fists and feet more than once.

At first, she'd demanded that they train to fight separately—that they be self-sufficient and self-reliant. Kifo disagreed, but shrugged, and did as he was told, knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Kishindo was acting in good faith, with only his interests at heart.

Soon, though, the lioness had changed her mind. And shortly thereafter, the duo had found that together, they were practically an _army_.

But they weren't arrogant—wait, no, fuck that, they were _very_ arrogant.

In speech, anyway.

Their boasts and oaths against the leopards were constant and getting progressively harsher. Thus far, they were empty, but that wouldn't last for long…

* * *

This… wasn't really his style. At all.

Kifo's style was more of a fuck it, all or nothing, bust down your front door and light you up before you can recover _rush_.

Now, though, the demon had to sit back, relax, and peer through a set of binoculars, surveying his targets. At his side, Kishindo kept a weather eye out for anything that might give away their position.

"Three of them, right? Two adults, and a younger one?" the lioness murmured.

Kifo nodded, face as determined and harsh as hers.

"You don't need to be so quiet. They're three-quarters of a mile away."

"Yes. Well. Forgive me for holding traditional views on tracking and reconnaissance," Kishindo said, still quietly, before stretching, a little, extending her dangerous, razor-sharp claws, "I have to get into the spirit of the hunt to do well."

"This ain't a hunt, yet, though," the demon murmured conversationally, canting his head, a little, to track the three leopards, watching them pad along towards a huge, tall mesa-like structure that had to be the tallest rock in the Black Hills if not all of the Lands of the Spirits. "We're just figuring out if we can take these fuck-os."

"Mm," the lioness said conversationally, before falling silent, "fair enough."

The two were well hidden, laying prone behind a fallen log. Flanked by ferns and other miscellaneous foliage, one could easily miss them from ten feet away. Kifo's gun—still a robust, trustworthy BLR was rested against the log; locked, loaded, and ready to be deployed in a heartbeat if needed.

The demon tracked his prey, watching, coldly, as the trio vanished from view. The Black Hills of the North weren't very conducive to long-range survey, but Kifo had to do the best with what he had.

Sighing in frustration, he looked to Kishindo, and the lioness looked back.

"So… do you think we can take them?" she asked, licking, coolly, at a paw. The way her ears perked up high, though, told her companion that she was more than a little interested in the answer.

That made him grin.

But still…

Kishindo had told him what she knew of leopards. They were solitary creatures—they fought alone. That's why the White Sands were always able to massacre and capture them; because lions stood together.

But she and Kifo numbered only two. And two full-grown leopards and an almost full-grown leopard… that might be a bit much to handle. Leopards were faster than lions, if not as powerful or bulky. And in a three-on-two battle… that speed could easily provide if not a combat advantage, then the opportunity to escape.

Kishindo, though, had made it crystal-clear that this prey couldn't be taken the way Kifo took most of his prey—an all-out rush that eliminated any resistance before resistance could even _form_.

Considering, though, how much faster than them the leopards were, that strategy couldn't be implemented. What was called for was a methodical and well-planned attack.

"…Yeah. We can take 'em."

There was a pause; not a long one. Kishindo began to smile, sadistically, before nodding, and looking forward, scouring the Black Hills for her prey.

"Then… let the hunt begin."

* * *

"Makhlava," said the leopardess's mate, "do you sense anything… …anything…?"

Dato was sixty or so yards away, scouting out a potential path over the smaller hill that barred them from Spirits' peak. The adults, his parents, Makhlava and Sonam, were checking out another possible route.

As the leopardess propped her forepaws up on a rock, peering upwards, she thought. Brow furrowing, just a little, she shook out her spotted fur, as if a fly had annoyed her. Then, turning to her mate with a canted head, she spoke.

"I… think… yes, I do, Sonam… but I don't know what it is."

By then, the two dappled leopards had formed up in a rough, two-man phalanx formation. The male was in front, peering through the Black Hills with his hawkish, dark blue eyes. Makhlava backed him up, crouching, concealing herself against a subdued group of rocks, in case he was assaulted.

Sonam moved forward, a few steps, half-hidden by a tree that might offer him some protection from sight or some light attack. Sniffing into the air, he paused, for a moment, peering suspiciously ahead…

Eventually, he lowered his guard, and looked to his mate, shaking his head.

"Nothing. That's—nothing that I can sense. So, the White Sands aren't attacking, and odds are long that whatever it was, if it was anything at all, was threatening to us."

Makhlava sighed to herself as she stepped out of cover, hesitantly looking up, over their obstacle, she spoke.

"You know, Sonam… the more risks we take, the greater the chance—"

"—the greater the chance we'll end up dead," the male said, before smiling just a little, nudging his mate's shoulder with his own. "Yes. I know. Still… what's your alternative?"

"Why, nothing," the leopardess said, tongue in cheek, glancing at her mate in a sidelong manner, "I am merely doing as females do—complaining."

"Mm. That I can see," Sonam grinned. There was a pause, and then, the couple shared a brief, tender nuzzle—a precious, precious act. After all—love, in this day and age, was not only a luxury but an exotic, extreme rarity.

"Father? Mother?"

Quickly, the two adult dappled leopards stepped apart, but not by much. Though they blended into the rocky terrain behind them almost perfectly, their son spotted them in an instant—he knew what he was looking for.

"I've found a path," Dato said, smiling, just a little, in a shy, expectant manner. "It's a little difficult, and it might be dangerous—this hill isn't stable. But if we're quick, and travel side by side… we can overcome it. It's an obstacle, and it will _not_ stop this family's Ascent. Nothing will, because nothing can. Our faith is as strong as we are…"

The young feline's monologue ended, trailing off. He seemed embarrassed—perhaps for wasting words, or perhaps for saying something that surely, his parents already felt and knew entirely.

Makhlava and Sonam were silent, for a moment. Then, eventually, the male spoke up, distinctive facial bones illuminated, briefly, under his soft, plush fur. Stepping forward a little, he smiled, slightly, and murmured in a low, gravelly tone.

"Fanatic. You'd be an orator, if the Black Hills were left to be by the White Sands, and if the Spirits took as much care of us as they did of the Pride Lands… as things used to be, in the days of our ancestors."

Makhlava sighed, and gently nudged the male's shoulder with a fisted paw, before quickly leaping out of range, gracefully, of his retaliatory bat, and perched on a rock, peering out towards where Dato had come from.

"Come," she said with a smile, persuasively, as the two males looked to her, tails twitching in interest, "All journeys begin with one step, yes? Well, now that we know where to plant that first step… let's do it. Come."

There was a brief pause… then the two males began to move. At first, they were alongside Makhlava, but quickly, cheekily, they tried to overtake her.

Things were relatively calm, for a while, as, tongue-in-cheek, the dappled leopards jockeyed for position, even as they started to ascend the harsh, rugged hill. Then, their informal race quickly broke down into an all-out free-for-all. There were no alliances and there was no plan, and, to be fair, the family deviated from what would be a more efficient, and safer path as their laughs echoed through the Black Hills.

The Black Hills weren't particularly kind to a single mother.

But maybe, just maybe… it was all worth it.

Maybe not.

* * *

"Quickly, Kifo. Keep up."

"Alright, alright… jeez, I'm right here. Never left your side, Kishindo—so calm down. Take a chill pill."

The lioness sighed, deeply, and brought a paw to her head and face, covering her eyes, massaging her temples. She'd already gone through the apparently pointless ordeal of raising three children—she'd had enough ridiculous, silly, stupid slang for one lifetime.

"We don't even have to hurry, if you think about it," the demon said, flexing a muscle, nodding in approval at its size, "I mean… the plan's not to take them on the go, we have to wait until they're in a position to rest, right? 'We must wait, patiently, and prepare ourselves, conditioning our minds and bodies until the moment is perfect—then, like an unseen, unheard snake in the grass… strike.'"

"Why, yes, Kifo, that's just it. Precisely—are you plagiarizing, perchance? I had no idea you were so eloquent."

_"The fuck—are you joking, woman? I'm _mocking_ you!"_

After a second, just before the demon was about to gripe about how his only companion in the world had no sense of humor, Kishindo grinned, and looked up at him.

"I really had you going, then, didn't I? I really… ground your gears, didn't I, Kifo?"

The demon twitched, a little, so that the dark wisps of facial fur that had started to sprout up above his lip and at the bottom of his chin shimmered darkly. But then, he knelt, resting his hand on the female's back, for a moment, as he followed her gaze, peering at their prey, again.

"You're getting good at this, Kishindo. For a fuckin' grandma, that is. See, you _can_ teach an old dog new tricks—eh, you know what I mean."

"Yes," the lioness said in a poisonously sweet voice, batting her eyes at Kifo, "but if you ever call me a grandma again, I will de-mane you."

The demon grinned, running paw though his fur, for a moment. It had grown thick, so that Kishindo's claws only barely penetrated it—an excellent defensive measure.

The Black Hills were silent, as Kifo raised his rifle, sighting through its scope. The lioness's eyes were powerful, almost telescopic—she could see things outside of the demon's eyesight.

"Where do you think they're going? And how do we know that they're going to stay together when they stop? We can't hear 'em," the demon murmured, "so we got no clear idea of what they're doing."

"True," Kishindo replied, as again, the duo got up and began to move, so as to not lose track of their prey, "but we have no alternative. They're faster than us at both short and long distances, and they know this land. I can't circle around and cut them off, so that you can pick them off from long range. We also can't allow ourselves to be sidetracked, because the Black Hills are huge," the lioness sighed.

Indeed—the northeastern fringe of the Land of the Spirits was gigantic. Lying to the south of the White Sands (the northernmost part of the Land of the Spirits), it was the size of the Eastern Jungle, the Falme Kindakindaki, and the Unexplored Regions _combined_. In fact, its true size wasn't even known by its residents, much less documented—to the east, it tapered off into the Forests of the Far East, and other lands outside of the protection of the Spirits.

Kifo bit back a groan. He hated—he _hated_ being unable to let loose, to throw himself into a field full of targets and let bullets fly, free of remorse and guilt—he hated it. And yet… what could he do? It was probably inadvisable to go south, back into the Eastern Jungle. There was also certainly no wisdom in attacking the Eastern Jungle—he had every reason to believe that the Black Army and its Master were as bad as their word. Attacking the White Sands, or somehow circling around the Eastern Jungle to make for the Falme was similarly unwise… lions were, for the time being, out of his league.

Ah well. Anticipation, surely, would sweeten the fruit of massacre and battle, when it finally came.

Kifo gnashed his teeth, a little, and stood. He sniffed, a little—good. They weren't going to lose track.

Eyes burning in evil determination as he started to walk, flanked by an equally brooding Kishindo, the demon was focused on his goal. And he was _not_ going to be discouraged from attaining it.

* * *

"Dear aunt…" he said with a bow that was significantly lower and more prolonged than tradition and manners dictated, "In the name of the Spirits, ever forgiving and powerful, and the Northern Deities… I'd like to speak with your daughter. Alone."

The lioness was middle-aged, but it didn't show. Like all of her sisters, cousins, aunts, nieces, and more distant relatives, her body was lithe but twisted with muscle. Ocean green eyes and a round face, unlike Akane's somewhat hawkish, boney features, completed the look of a dangerous, deadly but very feminine soldier.

Smiling in a somewhat exasperated, but flattered manner, the lioness bowed in return, and looked to the Prince of the White Sands, shrewdly.

"Akane, Akane, Akane... and I thought we were close."

"You have been speaking with my daughter for some weeks now. As our rules dictate, you have been surveyed throughout—but never, once, has any wrong come of your… thirst for conversation with her. I thought we were close—you even insist that I refer to you, my Prince, by your given name, not your title."

Somewhat embarrassed, the juvenile smiled back in thanks.

"We are close, dear aunt—this is why I respect you so much to ask of you what I would have taken from anyone else."

That was a lie. But so what? It served its purpose—the lioness practically beamed, glowing with pride.

"And people say that you're… less than masculine. You will take what you want, Akane… I think that's a very valuable characteristic for a Prince, a future alpha, to have."

"Well."

"I certainly wouldn't want to stand in the way of such a dominant, determined male, now, would I?"

Not daring to respond, for any answer he gave might easily give away just how deep his lies ran, Akane just chuckled, a little, feeling great shame in doing so, as the lioness laughed quietly.

"Daughter..." she said eventually, sighing, licking her paws, settling down for a catnap to wait out the heat of the afternoon, "Go. The Prince wants to speak with you in private… as you know, this is a great, great honor. Do us proud, girl… and _don't_ make a fool of yourself."

That was it—the between-the-lines words of consent that allowed Akane to look down, and to the left, a little… and meet her eyes.

They were green, just as her mother's were. But the cold, brutal inhumanity that was present in all other White Sands' lions' eyes... wasn't in hers. As a juvenile, she would sometimes go with her elders on raids into the Black Hills, and other times, would stay behind to help Amir keep an eye on the cubs.

Simply, she was less likely to be found out than she would be in the future.

The two juveniles didn't smile, nor did they hold eye contact for long—not here, not so close to the rest of the pride and the slaves. They couldn't risk it, and there was no point in doing so—they had the rest of the day together…

Padding slowly, side by side, steps slowly quickening with excitement as their distance from the pride increased, they finally stopped, some thousand or so yards from the rest of the lions.

Then, when their eyes met, they didn't look away.

"Aoi…" the Prince practically purred, smiling widely as he walked around the female, slowly, "I've been looking forward to this day… for weeks. I'm so glad… that it's finally here."

The young lioness wasn't nearly as powerful as Akane, of course, and longer fur, obsessively cleaned and cared for, made her incredibly soft to the touch.

Of course, he didn't know that; not yet—sex segregation in the White Sands meant that contact between an unmarried female and an unmarried male was verboten.

But now, so far from home and its rules and its oppression and its rules… they could finally experience pleasures and emotions so mysterious and breathtaking that they were scary.

Stepping towards one another, closer, closer, and closer yet, they each looked the other over. Beauty is all in the eye of the beholder, and to each beholder, the other was beautiful.

Finally, they were only inches apart from being nose to nose. Under Aoi's bright cheekfur, Akane saw a rosy splash of red, due to his proximity. He wasn't the kind of male to prod innocent humor at that… and even if he was, he wouldn't have, because, he was certain, the same redness was on his cheek.

Breathing shallowly due to the excitement, they moved closer still…

And touched.

Their cheeks brushed past one another, as they stepped forward, a little, until they were slowly, gently nuzzling, minds buzzing with pleasure at this unthinkable, unspeakable action. It was incredible to think that such harmless, innocent activity could be so, so powerful… and so, so forbidden.

Sooner or later, Akane reached up, with a paw, stroking through the female's cheek. He held her head in place, gently, and slid his head off of her snout to peer into her eyes.

He wasn't a man of many words.

Which was fine, because nothing needed to be said, just then.

Leaning in towards one another to briefly touch noses, each feline let out a soft sigh of contentment.

Then, something needed to be said.

Aoi's voice was soft and delicate, so quiet that even from where he was, Akane had to almost strain to hear it.

"Akane… I've been looking forward to this, too. Because I have something to tell you."

The young lion nodded, and waited for the female to collect her thoughts. How had they found out about their shared affection…? He had no idea. All he knew was that from the time they were cubs, they stole secret, hidden glances at each other, that they did what they could to find out about each other… and that each was sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the other was just as curious and certain about his or her own feelings.

"I know—don't ask me how, Akane… but I know that you… like me… feel that something about our nation, the White Sands… is wrong."

"But… I think I understand, or that I'm starting to understand, what it is, and why we feel like this."

Aoi's brow wasn't furrowed; there wasn't a crease in it. She was silent, though, for another moment, and continued even more softly, as if she was worried that they might be overheard.

"I'm sure that your parents, like mine, have told you that the Spirits accept, and even endorse slavery, as they can't protect us, totally—so, they allow for us to do what has to be done to appease the Lesser Gods—the Northern Deities."

"But I think," she whispered, before pausing, and looking around, fearfully, as what she was about to say was both dangerous and unbelievable, "I think that the Spirits _hate_ slavery. That's why they don't, or can't help the White Sands. I think the more we use slavery to appease the Northern Deities, the less the Spirits can do for us."

"It explains things," Aoi said, "Over the past few months, overall, the leopards have found many gems and much gold. And yet… things are worse than ever, here in the White Sands. I know your father thinks that we're at fault, and need to work the slaves harder than ever to get more precious materials for the Lesser Gods…"

"But Akane...." the lioness said quietly, "I think he's… wrong. I think all the adults are. I know—don't ask me how—but I know that you, like me, think that slavery is wrong. And I think the Spirits agree with us…"

The Prince didn't speak, for a moment. His eyes, as blue as the waters of the ocean to the southeast that he'd never seen darted, back and forth. Aoi felt concerned, for a moment—had she offended him? Was he about to roar her down, or attack her, or worse, reveal her to the rest of the Pride?

_"This is why things were better in Father and Mother's time. This is why it hurts to look at the slaves and their cubs. This is why, even though the Spirits know I try, I can't—"_

"Akane…" she said softly, guessing his thoughts before they had even fully materialized in his mind, "I know it's hard to say this, and harder to accept it. But as the adults in our pride have been responsible for what I'm sure is such a terrible, terrible wrong… I don't think it's very wrong to… admit that we can't love them."

* * *

_"This is an ambush."_

_"I can't afford to delay, or hesitate."_

_"When it's time to act, I need to explode into action, and I need to _commit_."_

_"I can't think twice, because there's gonna be no time to think twice."_

_"Shit—I can't even think. No time. I just gotta react, and do it right, 'cause I'm only getting one shot at this."_

Listening, hard, resting against a tree, Kifo's teeth were bared. His finger moved, slowly, arm nudging a nearby branch as he noiselessly flicked the safety off his rifle. He needed to wait until the last possible second—if he moved too soon, the element of surprise would be lost. If he moved too late, though, a counter-attack could lose him the battle.

So, really, timing was key.

Now, Kifo was holding his breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Heartbeat increasing, pulsating with adrenaline and excitement, he tensed his muscles, storing energy in them that just groaned to be unleashed

_"Ready… ready… ready… Go!"_

The demon jumped from cover, and, within a second, snapped off a shot. Fuck! It wasn't a hit. So he dived, rolling, as he worked the action of his rifle, and took a knee to unleash another two blasts.

Too slow.

Kifo had lost the element of surprise, and now, his prey had vanished.

Now, he was on the defensive.

Growling a curse, he threw his BLR aside, and drew his GLOCK—better for compromised combat situations, such as in-your-face close quarters battle, or a paw-to-paw engagement. At this point, either was likely.

Leaves rustled to his left, then to his right. Kifo's eyes darted from side to side, but he didn't spin on his heel, after a moment of deliberation—that would be playing into his enemy's hands—she was trying to psyche him out.

This part of the Black Hills was dense—there was hardly a foot unpopulated by thick, leafy vegetation. That meant that there was plenty of cover, and for Kifo, that was bad. His target could hide from both detection and, to a degree, gunfire. For the moment, the demon had the lower hand in the fight.

That could change at any time, though; that's the nature of combat. And Kifo had every intention of gaining any advantages there were to be had.

Silence took over, but it was a tenser, more foreboding kind of silence than Kifo was used to. He knew an attack was coming—he _knew_ it.

Still, though, the demon was taken totally off guard by the first move. He was pounced on, from the back—but his attacker was smart, and didn't grab him. Instead, she just slammed into him, knocking him down, and vanished, again, before Kifo's face even met the dirt.

Perhaps the assault was counter-productive, though. Because now, face soiled with mud and decaying leaves, Kifo was _pissed_.

Apart from his GLOCK, he still had a shotgun and his trusty blade. So, maybe, he could afford to waste some ammunition—it would only take a few seconds of concentration for him to get it all back, anyway.

Taking his shotgun into his left hand, he kept it close, so that it couldn't easily be knocked away. Then, holding his GLOCK outstretched, he began to fire rapid bursts.

Plants shook, leaves were sliced off, falling to the ground, and large, dirty divots were blown out of the rocky, black topsoil. The demon hadn't scored any hits… but he had cleared an area. She probably wasn't in the general direction that he'd just blazed away at, and she probably wouldn't be able to move without his notice. There were no certainties, no guarantees, but Kifo couldn't be meticulous and careful. This was the battlefield—he had to play the odds.

More rounds flew downrange, shredding apart another area. No luck.

Another series of bursts tore apart another quadrant of the battlefield—again, no luck.

But, as Kifo reloaded, eyes fixed on a certain area, just in front of him, he moved his shotgun, just a little—this was the final possibility. She was here—she had to be.

This time, the demon didn't fire a burst. A long, unpunctuated roar of automatic fire filled every square yard of the region in front of him with lead…

But still, there was no reaction. Either she'd taken a hit and accepted the pain and injury, circling around for another attack, or she'd left his vicinity entirely…

_"Or I missed her—"_

Just as that though materialized into the demon's head, the second attack struck.

This time, it seemed as if she had hugged the ground, slinking up behind him. She didn't have much inertia when she grabbed his calf in her jaws, and began to claw, viciously, at his shin.

Kifo roared in pain, and tried to move, to kick his leg free of her grasp. It was no use, though—she was heavy, and had a death grip on his limb. So, hissing as flesh was torn from his leg, he changed tactics, and turned the attack into a counter attack.

He planted his leg and turned, hard, so that his other foot drove into her side. Bones cracked as a rib broke, but she didn't let go, and, instead, pushed forward, going for Kifo's knee.

That wasn't good—if she took out his artery, he'd be finished. Worse, the sudden shove at his joint brought the demon to a knee.

Snarling, he refused to submit, and wrenched his torso around. Shoving her onto her side, he stomped, hard, on her underbelly. Though she gasped in sudden agony, she didn't let up—this wasn't good.

Now, panic and desperation were starting to take over. From the beginning, the ambush had been botched, and now he was paying the price. Kifo tried to pump rounds into her, but half the time he missed, and when he hit, he hit himself as much as he hit her.

"Alright, alright… I give up…"

"It took you long enough," Kishindo said, immediately rolling free, "Spirits, boy—I really have hurt you. You should have given up earlier!" the lioness said, surprised at the damage she'd caused the demon.

"Nah, I'll heal, I ain't a wimp," the demon said in a slurred, exhausted voice, as, together, they began to rub themselves, and each other, all over with a few tufts of Monkey's Grass—a special plant with renowned healing properties, that seemed to grow in the Black Hills quite plentifully, "And surrender's not a luxury I'll have when we face the leopards."

"Mm," Kishindo grunted noncommittally, "true."

They'd used rubber bullets, of course, and had both purposefully dulled their claws and teeth over the past few days. Kifo's were already starting to sharp again, though, and Kishindo's would be similarly razor-like by nightfall.

Neither of the duo was speaking now, though. Kifo needed to do better—if he couldn't take on one leopard, how were he and Kishindo to take on three? Worse, there was no way of telling how well the lioness could fight one of the felines—Kifo's form didn't lend itself to an approximation of leopard combat arts.

The mood was glum. Their prospects of taking down the leopard family were bleak, and both knew it.

Kifo's face was grim and foreboding as he sat, resting his chin on his thumbs. The lioness was tempted to assume a similar posture, but for the demon's sake, she didn't.

Kishindo was the veteran of more struggles than Kifo; one could easily make the case that her life was one never-ending fight for survival and pride. She knew how to be a leader, and she knew when it was time to do something to boost her forces' morale.

* * *

"I fuckin' hate surprises, Kishindo. This better be worth it."

"Watch your language, Kifo… and don't worry. It will be."

"Just hurry up. I got eyes for a reason—why do I have to keep them shut?"

"Because," the lioness said, in a voice that indicated that she was carrying something in her mouth, "Otherwise, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"

Kifo's lip twitched. He loved Kishindo, in his own way, but, at times, she ground his gears.

The demon's brow furrowed. She was up to something, sure, but that smell…

"Do you smell something? Something burning?" Kifo asked suspiciously, _"This had better not be a training exercise or some shit…"_

"Why, yes, Kifo, I smell something burning. I also smell meat, do you?"

"Yeah, what's—"

The demon fell silent. His eyes were still shut, but his eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline.

"Can I… open my eyes, now… please, Kishindo?"

That was disquieting. Who knew that a being made for evil could speak in such an innocently timid, curious tone?

"Yes, Kovu… you may."

Fire was a weapon that Kifo hadn't really used—yet—aside from the limited flames resulting from the explosion of a round. To be fair, though, its application now was not combative.

"How…?" the demon asked, as he looked, carefully, at Kishindo, confused, "You have paws, not hands with fingers. How did you start a fire, Kishindo?"

The lioness grinned, and looked away from her companion at her handiwork. A large, crisscrossed pile of dry logs with a tuft of brightly burning tinder in the center was set just above something… something so, so tender.

"I had no idea there were pigs in the Black Hills."

"That's because you're too… tense, Kifo. You need to relax, from time to time," Kishindo said, nudging against the demon's leg as she went to blow on the fire, encouraging its long, orange tongues to grow and multiply.

Talk about a paradigm shift. Ten seconds ago, Kifo would have sworn that he knew the lioness that was now indicating for him to take a seat on the trunk of a recently fallen tree. The demon watched as she shoved a few select leaves—herbs—and berries into the flames, before coming back to slump over next to him.

The demon, apparently, had been chatting with the lioness more than he'd realized. Kifo… was a fucked up boy. No denying that. But like all boys, he had favorite foodstuffs—barbecued pork was one of them. And though the Black Hills of Africa weren't very conducive to the sweet, smoky sauce that Kifo had grown to love, what was more important, really, was that Kishindo was doing her best for him.

And, objectively speaking, her efforts weren't all that bad, either. Obviously, Kishindo had never tasted any sort of human cuisine in her life at all, but from piecing together Kifo's few happy recollections, she'd made a good approximation of it. And since it had been so, so long since the demon had eaten a decently-prepared meal… the Lion Sheikh can't overstate how much he enjoyed it. How much it made him feel stronger, more comforted… and loved.

* * *

(Next chapter will be in Freak. Look for it soon. Remember to review if you're still with me.)


	10. Homeland III: Exodus

The Lion King: My Name

Chapter 10: Homeland III: Exodus

* * *

(I have nothing to say here but to say that I have nothing to say here.)

* * *

"Big words, Aoi. What you've just said, it's contrary to everything we've learned in life. It's insulting towards those we owe our lives to—treasonous, even, since you're questioning the laws and culture that this nation is founded upon."

The young lioness was still, for a moment, feeling a prickle of worry. Akane's ice blue eyes—they were unreadable, even for her. Tail flicking back and forth, slightly, she looked down, hoping that she hadn't pressed her luck. Now that she thought of it… Akane could battle any White Sands lioness and either win or hold his ground. If he attacked… she would be destroyed so completely that there wouldn't be anything left of her but a bad memory.

So, really, the only thing she could do was hope, and pray, a little. Swallowing at a throat that had been dry for the past weeks—water was in short supply in the White Sands and therefore rationed—she bit her lip, still half-bowing to Akane.

"But… you know," the Prince whispered, a moment later, in a tone so soft that had there been any noise in the desert she wouldn't have heard, "Spirits forgive me, but I think you're right. About everything. Slavery is wrong, the Spirits can't protect us because of what we do for the Northern Deities, whatever they are… and, yes. You're right about our parents, too, but I don't want to talk—or think—about that, right now. I need… time."

Aoi nodded slightly, looking up. Indeed, Akane was pacing back and forth, obviously agitated. The young lioness wanted nothing more than to walk to him and embrace him, tell him that everything would be fine, but she held herself back. She was still his Prince, and he was still a male. He'd come to a conclusion soon enough—such was his nature.

Eventually, though, the lion only sighed. He looked to the side, one of the White Sands' occasional breezes shifting his fur, a little, pressing them against his frame—Aoi's eyes widened, he was skinnier than she'd thought, and that wasn't all. He was young, like her, a juvenile nearing but not quite on the cusp of young adulthood. But he looked _old_—now that she looked at him from so close, without any adults around to make her check her gaze, she saw the unmistakable marks of stress and guilt on him. His eyes were sunken in, lined with darkened circles; his fur was loose and saggy… he'd been losing weight, recently, and a lot of it.

"Akane…" she whispered, after a minute, "It's alright." Daring to walk closer to him, timidly, she ignored the fact that he was still pacing, and rested her cheek against his side.

That stopped him in his tracks.

"I know that all we've come to accept is… monumental. When I started to think like this, I fought myself _so much_… but now that I've told you, and now that I know you agree with me, I'm glad… because we can face things together, now. Now, we don't have to be scared and insecure alone."

"It's not much, in all practicality," Aoi admitted, before smiling, looking up into Akane's eyes, "But still. I'm glad."

Slowly, the Prince returned her smile, if slightly, if barely. It was true—in all practicality, having each another to talk to and confide in… in concrete terms, it didn't mean all that much. It would be comforting… but that was all.

As a leader, it was up to him to translate their comfort and security into actual action.

"We'll have to run away, you know." His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact, offhand. He'd said it without really knowing it, and, until a few seconds later, he hardly realized the gravity of his words.

Aoi gasped a little, mouth opening… but nodded. Her eyes wetted, a little, but she didn't cry or even wipe them dry—one of the few ways she'd benefited by being raised by the White Sands pride was that she'd been toughened up.

"Yes, you're… right, Akane. But not now… not for a few months, or weeks, at least. You're a great fighter, and I can hunt… but we're too young, too small to deal with the world yet. We need to learn many things—I have to learn to hunt and track better, and you'll need to learn about politics, in case we meet other lions. The White Sands… it's a harsh land, and we'll be prepared for difficulty, but that's all. I, at least, don't know anything about living in other climates."

Akane nodded. "My father spent a few months living in the Black Hills when he was younger—he was trying to get the Eastern Jungle nomads to join us, and create relations with the Falme, for a bargaining chip against the Pride Lands. You remember, this is when we suspected that they were going to become an empire, or at least stop us from keeping slaves by force if normal pressure failed. He should be able to teach me—I'll say that as my rite of passage into adulthood, I want to travel through the all of the Lands of the Spirits, for a year, creating alliances or at least relations with the rest of the prides. Since this is something he's failed to do utterly, he'll accept."

"Yes, that's good," Aoi agreed, "I'll have a harder time, I think. But my mother and yours, they scout out the Black Hills every year… we were just cubs the last time it happened, do you remember?... anyway, I'll join them. That means, I'll have at least two weeks' experience living in a different environment. It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

Silently, Akane nodded again. There was a pause—the two young felines looked at each other, then away. Ten minutes ago, they'd only started to accept and declare that their homeland, their pride, was… evil's too strong of a word. Barely. But now… they were making real plans of leaving, for good.

Unspoken was the fact that this meant that they had only each another. Also unspoken were secret desires, fantasies that were far-fetched to the point of ridiculosity, now… traveling, seeing lands and beings beyond their imagination, but more importantly, starting a pride of their own… and all that that implied.

"This means we'll have to start eating more, a lot more… both of us," Aoi said, looking pointedly at Akane's bony figure.

Despite being a young female, she was rare in that she hadn't attempted to starve herself, a practice that was common even against the decidedly unfeminine White Sands lioness. Of course, she wasn't chunky at all, but she would certainly find use for extra fat until she and Akane started to settle into their new home, whatever they'd make it.

Akane nodded, a little meekly. "I'll… keep that in mind. I suppose it's not just my mother that wants me to eat more."

A grin.

"I'll create more concrete plans as I learn more from my father," the prince said, "Where we're going, what we should bring with us, how we should avoid being captured by our parents, and if we should attempt to claim asylum in the Pride Lands, for at least some time… these are all things I need to figure out."

"Akane," Aoi said, "I wonder… we're running away for our benefit, and there's nothing wrong with that. But someone has to answer for the crimes of our nation… right? Even if we avoid both the leopards of the Black Hills, and our families… do you think we'll be able to avoid the wrath of the Spirits…?"

Akane was silent for a moment.

"This nation is already dying," he said simply, "Water is rare, now, and so are jewels. I think we're already answering for our crimes. The Spirits, ever merciful and forgiving, won't blame us for escaping this land—they won't, Aoi. Why—_how_ could they? We're the ones that want to serve their will… isn't it?"

"I don't know," the lioness sighed, "But… I suppose we'll find out."

* * *

_"I think I'm getting better. I _hope_ I'm getting better. But the only way I'll find out for sure is by taking these three fucks—if I win, I'll get stronger, strong enough to take the White Sands. If not… my troubles will be over."_

There was no time to wait or train more—Kifo had gone for too long without killing something serious. Without the backing of his master, he'd soon perish, or lose control. Either way… it was time to act.

Kishindo was away, scouting out the area around Kifo and his prey. They hadn't seen any other sentients around, but it paid to be sure. The demon had been left behind to watch over his targets, from two miles away, and pace, basically, trying hard not to lash out at everything in reach.

It wasn't easy.

Reduced to practicing drawing his weapons, hardly appeased by the fact that he was, in fact, getting faster and faster, he snarled.

"When Kishindo gets back, we're eating, then heading out. Tonight. I spent a day making all this; I'm out of energy. I don't know if I can even burn a branch off, the state I'm in… But, once I start to fight, things'll change."

It was true, bizarrely. Kifo was a creature that had been created to kill, and without doing what he was made to do for so long, he felt… uneasy. Restless. Angry. Always. Perhaps like a caged animal, struggling to deal with an excess of energy, a need to discharge it, and the inescapable _madness _that resulted from being unable to do so.

Little games and practices did little to sate the bloodlust slowly building in Kifo. Torturing insects, thinking up new ways to slice and dice trees (by now, the demon had mastered cubing, quartering, and finely chopping wood several different ways)… these activities were nothing. They didn't satisfy him, not even close, and it was starting to show.

Raising a shaking hand, glaring at it until it fell still, the demon resumed his work after a moment.

"Useless hand… twist yourself into a claw, for all the good it'll do you. Shit… who am I kidding? I'll… eat something for my hand, at least. Gotta keep my energy up, somehow…"

It took Kifo a good few seconds of effort, of careful concentration to slowly descend into a subconscious state of existence. He had to go slow—moving too fast would result in a loss of control, and that would put his operational security in danger… as well as Kishindo. Despite everything they'd been through together and everything they meant to each another, Kifo was was still a demon. There was a level of risk associated with going around with such a fellow that she was willing to accept, but adding to things… wasn't smart.

The demon was seated, palms on his knees. His expression was one of intense concentration, like an artist, or some other worker delved so deeply into his craft that the outside world was shut out almost entirely.

It was damp around where the demon was, at the base of a rocky hill they'd been using as a base for some days now. Dew glistened on the bark and leaves of the skyscraper-tall trees all around. Carefully tracking the family of leopards for the past days, they'd moved out of the abandoned corners of the Black Hills, and now ran a very real risk of being discovered. Their calculations had been precise, though, their risks taken carefully and conservatively. Hopefully, they wouldn't be found—hopefully.

As the soft, distant sounds of activity in the forest kicked up, slightly, due to the demon's lack of activity and the evil it produced, he breathed in and out, slowly, fingers still twitching every now and then. His mind was focused, completely, on his goal—to fight these leopards and win, he'd need a serious weapon. To get one, he couldn't just wave his arm and create it, as he habitually did with most of his gear—which, he'd come to notice, had an annoying tendency to jam, rust, or flat out decay within hours of creation or maintenance.

I t had taken him a full day to produce the receiver and internals of the weapon in front of him. Now, he was working on the furniture, sights, and, of course, ammunition.

Maybe Kifo was of Belgian heritage, or at least, was, when he was alive. Or maybe he was, despite everything, an enemy of communism.

The firearm he was making was the right arm of the Free World—an FN FAL, a powerful battle rifle chambered in .308 Winchester. So far, his wasn't much—just a few pieces on the ground in front of him, so far, that soon enough would be lubricated and then carefully assembled into a machine capable of firing a bullet through well over a few inches of treated wood… or flesh.

The work was rather tedious and damned exhausting, but in the end, it would be worth it. Everything seemed to be hinged on the battle with the leopards; if Kifo and Kishindo lost, they'd be finished. Kifo would lose control and attack her or do something _stupid_, quite possibly killing himself directly or indirectly by provoking a response from the Spirits in some form or the other—perhaps through the White Sands' pride. Whereas if they won… evil would grip the land further, and he'd have more power than ever before. Then, the lions of the White Sands would fall.

All in good time.

"Still hard at work, boy?... Good."

It was the lioness, but Kifo didn't acknowledge her presence. She took no offense, though, knowing that his task was vital to their cause.

Kishindo was tired from a long day after long _days_ of tracking and ensuring that they, in turn, weren't being tracked. Her fur clung to her ribs a little more than was healthy, and the second she'd checked a two hundred yard perimeter around Kifo, she collapsed to the ground next to him.

Panting, for a moment, she licked her paws, a few times, before falling almost completely still. No use in wasting energy cleaning herself—not even vermin dared approach Kifo, and, just next to him, she could feel flies and beetles and parasites scurry out of her fur, desperately trying to get away from the demon.

Heh. He was useful for things like that.

"Sorry for making you go through all this, Kishindo. After I'm finished, I'll grab some food for ya; a little token of my appreciation."

By the time the lioness looked over, Kifo was completely still again, as if he'd never moved.

"Thank you, Kifo… …You are sure you'll be fine, right? I hate to act like your mother, but these past few days… you've been different."

"Don't worry about it," the demon said curtly. "Seriously."

A bit put off, the lioness shrugged, and fell silent. Folding up her paws, she yawned, and prepared to take a nap.

"…Sorry, Kishindo. I can't help it. You're right, there's something wrong with me. I don't know how to say this, but I have to kill something. Not just… targets, or small animals, or even a bear now and then. Until I fight Makhlava and her family," he said, "I don't think I'll be okay."

Kishindo had managed to learn the clouded leopardess's name by circling around the family and then laying in wait, so that they crossed within fifty yards of her. She'd listened closely, but only her name had been mentioned. It had taken hours, and was frustrating—they'd hoped to learn more about their prey.

"How long do you think you have?" she asked, after a moment. "Until whatever's wrong… makes you incapable of fighting, or worse."

"Not long," the demon replied softly, "Maybe… one day. I was thinkin'… it looks like they're gonna stop, tonight, to get rested up before they climb that big rock. That's what they've been going to all these days, and they seemed happy to arrive. So… after eating, I could finish up my gun, we could take a few hours to plan things out… then go for it. We're not gonna gain anything by waiting longer than that, because if they climb more than fifty feet up, we're done. We can't follow them, and at that range, I'll never hit 'em."

"You're right," Kishindo said. "But so soon? You might be a monster, boy, but I'm just a lioness. To be of any use… I'll have to sleep for the rest of the day. That means, no more intel, and we'll be unprepared to react if we're compromised."

"Doesn't matter," Kifo sighed, "If you don't have my back, I'll get myself killed. We'll just have to hope for the best, Kishindo… so… night-night."

"Mm, I suppose so… Good night, Kifo," the lioness said, lowering her head before peering at him with one eye. "And I'll be looking forward to whatever you bring to eat."

Curling up, Kishindo relaxed. The lands she'd lived in most of her life were nothing like the Black Hills—they were hotter, far, far hotter. But her long stay in the Forest of the Far East had tempered her, teaching her to fucking deal. She would never be comfortable in the cool environments of the world, but she would live. And that was enough.

The demon's face had slowly twisted into a jagged, toothy smile, as if he'd thought of something funny. And, depending on your sense of humor, he had—a total bloodbath later in the night… preceded by a dinner for two. His expression changed at that, into thoughtful contemplation.

What to bring for Kishindo, what to bring…

* * *

"Yo, Kishindo… wakey waky. Got us dinner."

The lioness stirred, eyes fluttering open, and then, slowly, stood. Stretching herself out regally, she yawned, and blinked until the blurriness in her eyes vanished, flexing her claws instinctively.

"Mmm… oh, good, Kifo. What time is it? When do you want to attack?"

"We got a few hours until sunset. I was thinking we could eat, nap, then head out near midnight, or so."

The demon walked into view a moment later, a nicely-sized buck over his shoulder's. It hadn't taken him long to find and kill the animal—Kifo had located a grassy meadow and sat in a tree, waiting until the lure of food called in the animal. Then, he'd dropped down and sprinted, snapping the animal's neck with a well-placed punch before it could react.

"Sounds like a plan," Kishindo said, "You know, I've never tried to train you to become a leader. Yet, here you are, learning to do just that, under my nose. It's exciting to watch, and I wonder if someday you'll ever lead a force into battle… just as I always dreamed of."

"Doubt it," the demon said curtly, setting the deer down, pulling out a knife to butcher it, "No one can stand me. Besides you, Kishindo. And I'd never lead anything into battle; that would mean I'd have to share…"

That got a laugh out of the lioness, even as they divvied up the meat. Kifo took the lion's share, of course—he was, after all, a growing boy. The next few moments were silent, save for the sounds of meat being ripped from bones and chewed. Conversation generally accompanied meals, but Kifo was too anxious, too tired and too high-strung to really talk, now. Which was alright with Kishindo—she welcomed the silence as a nice change from the norm.

"Let's save some," the lioness said, "To eat after we wake up and have a brief warmup. It'll keep our energy levels high—I think that the coming battle won't be short. Plan on fighting hard for at least half an hour, and remember, Kifo—they can run. We can't. And if they do run… we might as well say our final words to one another and die."

Kifo nodded silently. How important this battle was something he'd impressed upon himself daily, ever since they'd entered the Black Hills. It was his gateway to the White Sands, and then, after that, he'd have enough power to take the entire Land of the Spirits—or, rather, whatever parts of it he wanted. Then… it was back home to exact his revenge.

Ignoring the quiet, nagging voice in his head that told him that he was being fantastic, impractical… and, essentially, a short-sighted fool, he put down his chunk of meat. Even Kifo's wildest dreams gave him not the slightest idea of what he would, or could do after he successfully avenged himself.

"You know, Kishindo, I really am glad to have you around," he said, sitting, again, to start the final work on his weapons, "You know when to talk, and when to not. I owe you, big time."

"Oh, don't worry, dear Kifo," the lioness smiled, as she licked the last slivers of flesh off a bone before setting the rest of her own meal aside, "I already know how I want to call it in."

"Great… tell me, then. But not now…."

The lioness nodded and just watched, for a moment, as he sat. He was the perfect picture of evil—tall, powerfully built, shirtless, and utterly horrifying in appearance. His claws and fangs had grown longer and sharper under her tutelage, and he'd packed on muscle at an astounding rate. Though Kishindo doubted that such a rapid rate of growth could be kept up for much longer, thus far, Kifo was still growing, and growing fast.

"Then… see you in a few hours…" she murmured, "My dear Kifo."

After pausing for a moment, the lioness got up, and planted a motherly kiss on his head. He didn't notice, but she felt something in him spike. Energy, she assumed, or evil. What else could it be? Those two forces practically defined Kifo.

Smirking a little at that though, Kishindo lay back down, closing her eyes. In only a few hours… it would all go down.

* * *

"I don't see why you're so worried, Mother," Dato said, kneading the ground with his paws, quite contentedly, "I sense nothing wrong here, nothing… what could be wrong? We're all healthy, and this is our Ascent. Of course, you know better, but… I don't know. I just don't understand what's upsetting you and Father."

"Your father senses something, too?" she asked, unable to lie down just yet, still standing and looking out through the Black Hills, murmuring a soft prayer to herself that her mate would emerge from it soon, and uninjured, before turning to her son, "He's told you this?"

"No, of course not, Mother; he has pride… but I know my father well. He doesn't need to say a word—see, how much time he took to look around before letting us stop? And that look he gave you before going… it's not just him accommodating your unease, Mother. I feel certain that he, too, is worried about something."

That was somewhat of a comfort; she wasn't alone in her worries. But the knowledge that her mate felt that something was wrong, yet didn't speak to her… that indicated that he felt he had no logical reason to worry. Were the elder leopards just being paranoid, for some reason? Or was Dato just blind in ways beyond his, and their, comprehension?

_"Come to think of it… I'd rather not find out."_

"So…" Makhlava said, attempting to smile as she turned to her son before turning back to the forest, scanning it incessantly, "Let's suppose that there's nothing wrong, for a moment. Is our added caution bad?"

"Of course not, Mother," Dato said, smiling a smile that she couldn't see, "It's certainly not at a level where we won't enjoy this. And I suppose your worry is warranted… after all, the White Sands are long overdue for a major incursion."

"That's true," the clouded leopardess said, pausing, considering continuing, but closing her mouth.

_"But they've never approached Spirits' Peak, before. They've never come close. I'm sure it's not them that I'm worried about; it's something… different. Something we leopards have never encountered before. Something worse…"_

_"But Sonam's the greatest fighter among us, and my senses are sharp. Though he's not grown yet, Dato shows signs that he'll overtake us both by the time he's in his prime, and possibly well before that. This is why I selected Sonam to be my mate—because whatever cubs we produce will be _strong_."_

_"For now, I'll keep my worry under control. Later, I'll speak with Sonam, and see what he thinks… but unless he has some tangible reason to act with extra caution, we'll never abort this Ascent. It's too special—too important."_

"You're a thoughtful female, Makhlava," said a voice from the leopardess's right, making her jump slightly and turn more than slightly to watch as her mate approached, clambering over a set of car-sized boulders with a fat doe in tow, "That's why you're the only one for me."

The Black Hills were hard on everyone, particularly leopards—particularly female leopards. Makhlava had had plenty of experience controlling her emotions, and she was glad for that, just then. Otherwise, she would have blushed furiously in front of her son, and that certainly wouldn't do, not at all.

Instead, the leopardess was able to allow one corner of her lips to upturn, coolly and calmly, as she bowed her head a little before moving, then catching herself, as Dato went to help his father.

"Whereas you, Sonam, are conscious of your feelings and unafraid to show them, when appropriate. That's why you're the only one for me."

Dato had flattened his ears and appropriated his father's kill, carrying it off, away from the meticulously cleaned and _very_ sacred path to the largest mesa in the land to do the bloody act of slaughtering it, preparing it for consumption. Romance… it wasn't something he was ready for, quite yet. And… romance between his parents… was something he'd probably never quite be ready to accept.

"It's been de facto true for years," Sonam said, looking at his mate with shining eyes, "At least… on my end…"

There was only the slightest hint of doubt in his voice. But the leopardess shook her head curtly.

"No… as I said, you're the only one for me, Sonam. I've never had a secondary mate—I've never even thought of it."

That wasn't quite true, of course. But little white lies are fair game in the games of love or war. And it made a smile touch his lips—there was no sin.

"Then, from now on… we'll be officially exclusive. Yes?"

It wasn't really an orthodox manner of posing such a question. But both Makhlava and Sonam had neither siblings nor parents, nor living immediate family that they were aware of—ideally, these beings would be present or nearby, in case things went wrong, and a fight had to be averted.

Of course, that wasn't going to happen. Not today. Not on the Lion Sheikh's watch.

The leopardess nodded, slowly. She'd forgotten about everything else, totally—her worries, the fact that he, too, had some unspoken fear, that she had perfect, complete, total control over herself…

The next thing either cat knew, Maklhava had practically pounced on her mate, and was nuzzling him ferociously, eyes wet with tears. Quickly, she realized what she was doing and slowed, but didn't halt, the floodgate of emotion she generally concealed so fanatically.

"Where did all this come from?" she asked softly, awed, "We met by chance, and now, here we are, exclusive mates… by chance. Neither you nor I would have brought up the subject, normally… I hate to sound like a zealot, Sonam, but the Spirits are the only things I've had for much of my life. I feel blessed, I really do," she said quietly, "Not only do I have a strong, healthy son, but now, a mate that's, officially, mine and mine alone. It's not just chance."

"I agree," Sonam said, trying, unsuccessfully, to get up, pinned down by the leopardess's paws and weight, "Oi--"he said jokingly, before pausing, and canting his head, noticing her sudden unease and apprehension, "Makhlava… what's wrong?"

Fluidly, she got off him and slunk over to the top of a nearby boulder, looking all around. Her tail's clouded tip twitched, this way and that, repeatedly—something really was setting her off; Sonam didn't know how he'd missed it until now.

"Sonam, tell me, and be honest—be brutally honest, if necessary, but be honest. Tell me… over the past few days, ever since we've started this Ascent… have you felt… strange, somehow? Off? As if… something's… just not right?... not in a manner that you can explain or understand. Just… something feels wrong…"

For a minute, she stood there, alone. A breeze rolled through the Black Hills, and, despite her thick, protective fur, she felt desperately cold, and shivered. Speaking softly, though, in a low, serious tone, as he padded to her, Sonam replied.

"Yes… I do."

"It's… crazy. Really, it is. Here I am, at my first and only cub's Ascent… worrying about a threat that isn't real, by any form of logic. I cherish tradition and therefore instinct, the collective knowledge of those before me… but the world's changing. It's been changing more quickly and unpredictably than ever before; since the Pride Lands instability…" he shook his head.

Scar's coup and, later, Simba's counter-coup hadn't just been the affairs of the Pride Lands. It was like any significant conflict—other powers had their hands in the matter, somehow. Foreign involvement wasn't that overwhelming; isolationism played a major role in the politics of the various regions of the Land of the Spirits.

But that conflict had been something of a proxy war between the leopards, who sided with the hyenas and therefore Scar's regime, and the White Sands' lions and a few other predators that had since been exiled from the Black Hills who had supported their brethren, in hopes of gaining military assistance someday.

Of course, things hadn't really gone as planned. The leopards' leadership had collapsed, and faction infighting had quickly led to civil war that only ended when all forms of governance collapsed. The White Sands' lions had turned on their comrades and given up all hopes of creating relationships with the Pride Lands' irrationally moralistic inhabitants, putting the situation where it was today—one that no one was happy with, but one that beat any viable alternative, and soundly.

"It hurts a little to say this. But perhaps some instincts are obsolete," Sonam said bluntly, shrugging, "We're far from the border with the White Sands, and even if they do come to us, we only need to climb up the mesa; they'll never be able to follow us nearly as far as we can go."

"That's true," Makhlava sighed, "…But, I think I'd feel better if we… chose a middle path, so to speak. Let's not waste time checking out every little oddity in this world, anymore… but, let's also sleep in the trees, and keep escape routes in mind. It won't be too much trouble, but if something happens, it'll mean a lot."

The leopard nodded, before grinning a somewhat unsettling grin.

"But, my dear mate… do you really think that such limited precautions will mean anything if a real monster comes?"

* * *

It was sickening for him to really interact with them. They were his parents, of course, but that didn't make it any better. To laugh at their jokes, to pretend to be interested in their barbaric stories, to help them put unruly slaves in their place…

But, on the plus side, Akane was learning. And he was learning fast.

He'd beefed up somewhat—no longer was he horribly underweight. His protein-rich diet had helped pack both muscle and fat onto his form, which meant that now, he gave his father a run for his money whenever they sparred. And he was getting better every day.

Three weeks had passed since he and Aoi had met last—they'd decided against meeting in private anymore; it might cause suspicion. Rather, they interacted through their parents. The goal was to fool their parents into thinking that they were only somewhat interested in each another—certainly not so madly in love that they were planning to run away together within the month.

Now, though, they had to speak face to face—and that meant alone, in private. Instead of informing their parents, they risked lying and sneaking off together—Spirits knew that they needed practice doing just that.

Akane's excuse was that he was checking up on the southwestern border with the Pride Lands, giving his father time to rest and relax for a chance. Aoi's was that she wanted to check the migratory patterns of desert birds—tall, white cranes that were either dinner or good indicators of the weather and the movement of larger prey animals along the Black Hills' border.

That gave them a few hours to themselves—perfect.

Akane was waiting in the spot they'd designated at the time they'd designated the last time they'd been alone. Ten miles to the north of the slaves' shantytown, in a crater filled with broken, jagged rock reminiscent of the Shadow Lands to the west, precisely twenty days after their previous meeting.

Aoi was late. But he didn't mind—he wasn't going anywhere, and would wait for eternity to see her face again, if needed.

Perched atop one of the glassy pieces of obsidian, his pale fur made him stand out in the darkness of the desert. At night, the White Sands glowed, a little, but it was perfectly dark aside from that—a new moon meant that there was little light apart from that provided by the sand, which wasn't much in itself. A few clouds high, high up in the atmosphere glowed purple from the setting sun, but apart from them and even more distant stars, the juvenile's backdrop was black.

And then, after another fifteen minutes, she approached. Akane stood up a little taller, drawing himself up, and focused his ears forward. Tail twitching, just a little, he felt a genuine smile touch his face—the first one in over a fortnight, now.

The White Sands didn't sport huge, rolling dunes, as did the Desert. The sand here was thick and dense and heavy, meaning that wind rarely significantly affected how it spilled out over the landscape. That meant that Akane could watch her as she came to him from a good two miles or so away, walking, then running, towards him.

He played it cool, though, and didn't run towards her in response. It was something he'd learned from his father.

"Remember, son," Amir had said, ignoring a few choice words Aisha called out as he took Akane out for a hunt instead of allowing his mother to teach him some more combat techniques as she'd planned for a week or so, "You are a male, and therefore superior. Females may leave you for a few minutes, but they'll always come back. We need them as much as they need us," he murmured in a lowered voice, "But don't you ever let them know it. Put yourself on a pedestal, make yourself more than what you are—a God."

Aoi was panting by the time she was in speaking distance of him, a smile blatant on her face. Slowing down, she gave herself a shake, dislodging a few grains of sand from her coat, and watched as Akane dismounted the rock and approached her, trying hard to maintain a poker face.

She knew the game he was playing. But rather than turning up her nose at him and perpetuating the ridiculous drama that most juveniles enjoyed for reasons completely beyond her comprehension, she spoke honestly.

"I've missed you, so much," she said, still smiling, "Every night, my last thought before sleep took me was you. And every morning, my first thought before my eyes opened was you. I'm glad to see you again, Akane."

Amir's advice was sound, for most cases. But he'd never met a lioness like Aoi.

Akane thought about how to react, for a moment. Then, he gave up, and merely walked to her and whispered into her ear.

"Me too."

He… wasn't a person of many words. Many aren't: Freak, Kifo, President Coolidge, I could go on…

Sometimes, though, one doesn't require many words to express much emotion.

Greetings were done. Though they could have spent hours lost in the depths of each another's eyes, they were a bit pressed for time—they had a lot to accomplish.

"I think we should go to the Pride Lands, by way of the Eastern Jungle. Someone's sure to be protecting that border, since it's so close to the Falme. We may come in contact with the Eastern Nomads—they're unlikely to view us as threats; they don't hold the same ideas of land ownership that we do. They may even help us, who knows?... anyway, the Pride Lands _should_ accept us at least as temporary refugees. My father's said many things about them—it's hard to separate fact from fiction, when it comes to him, but I believe they may even go so far as to accept us fully into their pride, if we show them we can be trusted. If not…"

"Then it's back to the Eastern Jungle," he said, "Living there won't be easy, but it won't be impossible, either. The Falme and the Eastern Nomads have a peace treaty of sorts; the Falme doesn't affect the goings-on of the Eastern Jungle and, in return, the Nomads don't exterminate them."

The Eastern Nomads were the most feared pride of lions in the land, even more than the Pride Lands—at least, in some ways. Many tried to join their ranks: some from the Lower Plains, and there were even rumors that they traced their ethnic roots to strange forests to the south of the Southern Rocklands and the Wet forest, at least some of them. Nomadic Legend suggested that they were also descended from a few distinct tribes in the area now know as the Unexplored Region, before that part of the Land of the Spirits fell out of the Spirits' control.

In short, the Eastern Nomads were tough barbarians, uncivilized to the core. Akane and Aoi had no particular desire to throw their lot in with them for long, but they could certainly learn from such a tribe. The Eastern fighting style was said to be astonishing in both its beauty and its brutal effectivity.

"We'll be safe there as long as we want, as long as our parents don't track us. But if life's too hard, or our parents find us, or… anything else, we'll have to sneak through the Falme—there's no other choice. The Pride Lands are too strong, and if we offend them so much that they exile us, we're better off tempting fate in the Falme than there."

"After that, we'll have to cross the Eastern Volcanoes, or go through the Unexplored Regions."

Aoi shuddered. Both options left much to be desired.

"And then, we'll be free," Akane sighed, "Our pride has no quarrel with the Desert; they'll accept us and we can thrive there. If that's not enough, the Lower Plains will have to do, or some land near the Western Grasslands. Or, if we go over the Eastern Volcanoes, we can live in the Jungle."

There was so much to think of, so much to consider. Failure seemed to loom at every turn of the journey, but so did _adventure_. They were young and they were in love—this was as romantic as the legends their parents had told them before they'd opened their eyes for the first time.

They… were also probably going to die in their effort for freedom. But their determination was such that it didn't even need to be said how much they'd rather die on their feet than live on their knees.

"So… we're really doing this?" Aoi said.

Akane nodded, thin-lipped. He'd had his own internal struggles over the past days, but they were finished now—now, after fully delving into the evils of his homeland, he realized that he couldn't tolerate it. It made him sick—sometimes, literally.

"I'm glad," she smiled, "I might have done something like this someday, anyway… but you, Akane; knowing that you'll be with me… it gives me courage. I somehow know that things will turn out for the best."

Akane recalled that Aoi's grandmother, or great-aunt, or something, was somewhat gifted with prophecy. Akane had always been something of a believer, at least, in the power of the Spirits… but the way his pride bowed down to the Northern Deities, the way they rationalized everything they did with religion had made skeptical of supernaturality, or at least how it could be applied to day to day life. Yet, Aoi was well praised among the pride for being strangely adept at tracking prey—sometimes she ignored rules of thumb and wisdom gained from years of experience to find prey in unexpected and unforeseeable places.

If only he had a way to really take advantage of her abilities… but, sadly, such knowledge wasn't in the White Sands. Perhaps the Pride Landers could—he'd have to remember to mention that to them, when they attempted to gain entry to the Pride Lands. It could be a useful bargaining chip.

A smile touched his lips.

"That gives me courage. To hear that you're confident that we'll be successful."

Aoi opened her mouth, but then shut it. That… wasn't exactly what she'd said, or meant. She'd said that she was sure that things would turn out for the best… not necessarily for them, or not necessarily how exactly they wanted things to turn out for the best.

But he didn't need to know that.

"So," the Prince said, knowing that the longer they were here, together, the higher the odds of being caught became, "We'll meet again… the night you return from scouting the Black Hills. You're leaving either tomorrow or the day after, depending on how the hunt goes, right?" Aoi nodded in affirmation. "Then… we'll see each another again in about two weeks. After that… we'll make plans for our final departure. I want to be gone within twenty days… if that's alright with you."

"I agree," the lioness said, "Within twenty days… that's a good goal. I won't be able to make much preserved meat when I'm in the Black Hills—I'll have to leave that to you, Akane, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry. I'll be fine. Just concentrate on learning as much as you can—not just about the Black Hills, but about more general knowledge, of how to survive in strange lands."

"I will. In the meantime, Akane, take care of yourself," the lioness said, concerned, "I know it's hard for you to spend so much time around your parents, and I know it's even harder for you to pretend to like hearing what they have to say about... everything. But it has to be done."

The lion nodded, trying not to shiver. He wasn't being influenced by so much interaction with his parents, thank the Spirits, but there was a slight danger of revealing himself. He didn't know how much more of them he could take.

"I'll live," he finally replied, "But please, Aoi… hurry back."

There was a pause. They'd said everything that needed to be said—now, it was time to go.

"Keep me in your heart, Akane. I won't be gone long."

The Prince nodded, a little solemnly. It wasn't that he worried about her, he worried about _himself._ But he couldn't allow that to sour their farewell… it would be some time until they saw each another again.

"I will, Aoi. Be safe in the Black Hills, alright? No matter what, I love you, but I also want you to be in one piece for as long as possible."

Come to think of it… that was actually the first time the word "love" had crossed either of their lips. The word was simple and short, but the feelings it carried with it were immense. It certainly made Aoi blush, for one thing—and that was something that Akane had never seen before.

Her fur was as light as his; their coats were the near-pure white sported by all White Sands lions. The rosy tinge that she sported, though, contrasted nicely with her oceanic eyes, which, in turn, contrasted with Akane's piercing, deep blue gaze.

"Akane…" she whispered, searching for words, before simply smiling and gently touching her nose to his cheek in a feline approximation of a peck, "I will. I promise."

"Then," he whispered back, smiling, playing it cool, again, "I'll see you… very soon."

Slowly, the two backed away from each another. Their tracks were somewhat of a security risk, but both had traveled to the rocky structures to the north of their dens through roundabout routes, and the White Sands were long overdue for a windstorm. They'd be fine.

Turning away, reluctantly tearing their gazes apart, they went off to do the tasks they'd volunteered for. It would be hard to complete them quickly enough to not appear suspicious, but they both had great motivation. Love, dear readers—it's motivated many things throughout history: patience, charity, determination, ingenuity… and, of course, in many cases, murder, massacre, and, in the end, violence and death.

* * *

(Just in case anyone's curious, I'm picturing Kifo's build as similar to the professional wrestler Batista's.)

"It's time."

Just like that, Kishindo's eyes flickered open. Standing in a single, fluid motion, she first took a survey of her surroundings.

Apparently, it had rained while they napped, but the roof of leaves practically miles above them protected them well. Drops of water slowly rolled down the sides of the trees, vanishing into the hungry soil when they hit the ground. Looking up, Kishindo saw the Moon; a blue orb half-hidden from her by a few fat raindrops that had missed the rush, and the same canopy that had kept her relatively dry.

Not bothering to dry herself, the lioness looked at Kifo, and instantly grinned.

He was jittery, not from a lack of energy, for once, but from anticipation. For the moment, he was under-armed, under-armored, and only half-dressed—his gear and clothing was laid out in front of him. Clad only in a thick, protective rhinoceros hide trousers, it was obvious that his incredible workout regimen had been a complete success—he wasn't barrel-chested or heavy; rather, his figure was the perfect median between lean muscularity and shock-absorbing mass.

"Yes. So… let's get you ready, boy."

The demon nodded, and, slowly, relishing the buildup to what would, one way or the other, be a fatal fight, started to dress.

First, he pulled on a form-fitting vest. It didn't dissipate kinetic energy very well, but it was tough—it could stop any set of claws he'd come in contact with to date. Second were a set of gauntlets—armored and built with a material with an astoundingly high coefficient of static friction, making them ideal for gripping something and not letting go. After tightening his pants at the waist and ankle, it was time to get strapped.

Kifo's main arm for this conflict was, of course, the FAL he'd spent so much time and effort on. Customized with a zeroed ACOG sight and flip-up back-up irons as well as a foregrip, bayonet mount, sling, and ergonomics built precisely for his grip, it could unleash a steady stream of lead for seconds on end without overheating. The rest of the demon's weapons included a GLOCK 20, a more powerful version of what was usually his signature firearm—chambered in 10mm and equipped with an extended, match-grade barrel and night-sights, it was plenty powerful to take down a leopard; a pair of push-daggers that attached to his vest for quick draw, and, of course, a double-edged, chisel-ground knife built for combat.

Kishindo was proud to hand the demon each of his arms and accessories; holsters and sheaths, and check that they were secured to him well. As she circled him, grinning maliciously, eying his powerful, deadly form up and down, she spoke.

"You are ready.

"Heheheh… _nice_.

"Very… nice…

"You're going to win this fight, boy. I can tell. But before we move out, there's something you should know."

The demon glanced at Kishindo, then proceeded to practice drawing and firing his pistol accurately a few final times, striking various fighting postures in the effort.

"When I was a cub, I heard some things about the leopards. I believe that none of them were true, but this.

"It was said," the lioness said, "that leopards are favored by the Spirits. They're weak, you see. The Spirits pity them, but can only help the living so much, you see. So, overall, they're weak regardless. But they do have one advantage… perhaps.

"Supposedly, they are difficult to put down quickly. Let me explain—if you slit one of their throats, they'll die. But not in seconds; not in minutes… but in _hours_. And until then, they'll know their fate, you see… and you can trust them to fight _desperately_.

"So," she said curtly, "take nothing for granted. Keep fighting until your enemies' separate parts litter the ground, blood paints the trees, and you're out of ammunition and strength."

"Fair 'nough," Kifo hissed, raising his rifle and dry-firing, twice, making sure that he didn't have any kind of flinch reaction, "But I gotta wonder… why the _fuck_ didn't you tell me this earlier?"

He wasn't angry. He wasn't upset. What he was was confused, and that was reasonable. So, the lioness responded reasonably.

"Because… think of what I said. Keep killing them until there's nothing left to kill… you'd have done this regardless, would you not, dear Kifo?"

The demon smirked just a little at that, one corner of his lip twisting, horribly, upwards.

"Guess so. Am I just predictable, Kishindo, or do you really know me that well?"

"Heheh… the latter, of course."

A pause.

By then, Kishindo was warming her muscles up as well; Kifo had started jogging in place a moment ago. Taking a second to shadowbox and stretch, the fighters hyperventilated for a few seconds, psyching themselves up. Then, looking at each another, they nodded. After jogging for a moment, in almost perfect silence, they ate, slowly, extremely intense, extremely focused.

Then, it was time to go.

Kifo snapped a round into the chamber of his rifle. Kishindo flexed her claws, snarled, for a second, and swiped at the air. After freezing, for a second, in perfect unison… they were off.

* * *

Nights in the Black Hills tended towards silence. Not the silence that those in the Pride Lands or Jungle were used to, punctuated by the cries of birds and insects and small animals—it was the silence of remote parts of the White Sands, Desert, Lower Plains, or, heh, now, the Bloody Shadows. Nothing moved—it seemed that nothing breathed, even. What little sound there was was absorbed by foliage, trees, leaves, reflecting around indiscriminately until it became inaudible.

As the parents had agreed, they weren't sleeping directly on the ground, nor even in a cave or on a hillside as was usual. Rather, they'd made the less comfortable but far safer choice of sleeping in the trees, along tough, thick branches—at least twenty five feet up in the air.

They were close, but not too close, spread about six yards from each another. Before sleeping, Sonam had taken perhaps twenty minutes to map out a few potential escape routes to relative safe places if something were to happen., and teach them to his family. Some involved climbing straight up as far as possible, collecting gravitational potential energy, then converting it to speed and running fast and far. Others involved scattering then regrouping, and escaping together without leaving the ground.

All in all, the leopards' safety was in good shape. Dato was rather obsessive with his claws, always keeping them razor sharp by rubbing them against rocks whenever given the opportunity, and the older felines had home court advantage—both of their hunting territories were very close to where they'd make their Ascent.

Still, though, Makhlava couldn't' sleep. She'd tried honestly and hard, forcefully keeping her eyes shut as long as possible before, of their own accord, they fluttered open. She wasn't tired, though she tried to convince herself otherwise, and, despite everything, she felt fear. Continually making the fur on the back of her neck stand on end, as if charged with static electricity, it kept her from sleep, keeping her mind buzzing with activity.

Sighing, softly, she stood. Makhlava stretched, for a moment, dappled grey form striking a posture that made muscle ripple beneath fur, as if with a life of its own, before yawning silently.

Looking around, just to cool her nerves, it was as she'd expected—dark, uneventful, and, as far as she could see, _safe_.

What was wrong with her? She and Sonam had agreed not to let paranoia ruin this experience, yet, here she was, unable to sleep due to some silly premonition that carried no logical weight whatsoever.

Closing her eyes for a moment, swallowing, she exhaled softly through her nose. _"I should be ashamed of this…"_ she thought, looking around again, wary, for some reason, _"There's no reason to…"_

Well.

Damn.

Makhlava had seen many things in her lifetime—she'd seen the White Sands lionesses advance so far into the Black Hills that they decided to stay the night, despite the best efforts of the leopards to oust them, before leaving. She'd seen any number of natural phenomena, and she'd seen real evil before, too, many times. Too many times.

But this… though she was looking right at it, she literally did not believe her eyes.

"A joke?" she asked herself, quietly, before scoffing once, humorlessly, swallowing nervously. Makhlava turned to grin at her mate, saying, "Haha, very funny, Sonam; how have you done thi…"

The leopard… was still fast asleep. And when she turned back to get a second look of that… thing… it was gone.

Now, she was scared. Eyes darting all around, searching from some corner that… might appear from, she slowly, carefully picked her way through the trees to her mate.

"Psst… psst… Sonam, wake up…"

Nudging his shoulder insistently, her efforts were rewarded by a surprised "mmr?" as the leopard opened his eyes, and, somewhat hastily, stood, seeing the fear in his wife's eyes.

"Mm? What is it, Makhlava?" he asked, getting back to back with her, looking around sharply.

"I… saw something."

That wasn't much of an explanation.

"Something…. _bad_."

That wasn't, either, but he seemed to understand. Nodding, though she couldn't see him, he replied in a stunningly cool, collected whisper, "Yes… I sense it. Where did it come from, where was it going, and what was it doing?"

"It was approaching from the northwest… towards us. I don't know what it was doing, it was just walking…."

Hearing such a terrified quaver in her voice made Sonam's fur prickle. He still wasn't sure what she'd seen, exactly, but now he was certain that whatever it was, it was, as she'd said, _bad_. Though he couldn't detect it with his normal five senses, he could _feel_ it in a manner beyond explanation.

"Alright…" Sonam said, after a long, tense moment, "I think it's gone. Maybe it didn't notice us… either way, we need to go. On my mark," he murmured, extending his claws just a little, ready to grip the tree, "We're running up as high as we can, then heading to Drev's Falls. We'll hide there until—"

"Wait a moment…" Makhlava said suddenly, "Dato…"

In their terror, they'd both forgotten about their son. Now, as he occurred to them they looked around, wildly; where was he?

Then, the sight that met their eyes made their hearts stop.

"Heavy sleeper, huh?"

Monster was hardly an adequate description of the thing in front of them. He was big, bigger than they were, and bipedal. Despite the darkness, they could see every horrible detail of him—from his crimson mane, to his obtrusively large claws, to his protective clothing, to every taught bunch of muscle under his fur.

Worst… he wasn't two feet from their son.

Strangely, though, his expression was cordial, even polite, as he continued to speak, resting a long, thin instrument on his lap that the leopards instinctively distrusted. Waves of malice emanated from him, making them shudder and shake, only bolted into their positions by the threat this thing posed to Dato.

"Hate to wake you up like this. Really. I remember, back in the day, sleep was one of the few things I really, really liked doing… but that's another story. For now, we've got some shit to discuss."

So, he wanted to negotiate… but what? Had they somehow offended him? What did they have… that he wanted? Makhlava and Sonam didn't look at each another before nodding once, curtly, sharply. They were standing at the ready, either to run or to fight or to grab Dato and do either of the above, he knew it, and they knew that he knew it.

But he wasn't moving to attack or take Dato hostage… so, what was going on, it seemed, would be revealed in due course.

"You've been behind on your payments for way too fuckin' long, now. You knew what you were getting into by taking out an adjustable rate loan—I got the papers to prove it. You've left me no choice… sorry, guys… but I gotta foreclose you. Got big plans for your place.

"…Goddamn, no one appreciates sophisticated humor around here, what the fuck, what the fuck…" Kifo muttered to himself, sighing. Biting his tongue for a second, thinking of what to say, he eventually shrugged.

"I'm Kifo—that's all. No title, no surname, nothin'—I guess you can call me K if you want, but I've never met someone that can't pronounce Kifo."

A pause.

"Well," the demon said dramatically, expectantly, "I introduced myself, right? Now, it's your turn—and I already know your name. Malkhava, right?"

"Makhlava," the leopardess whispered.

Kifo nodded, holding up a hand in apology.

"My bad, my bad… Mal—ahem. Makhlava. Pretty name—what's your name, bro?"

"Sonam."

His voice brought her some comfort. He was still cool, still controlled, and the expression in his eyes was assertive and didn't show an ounce of the fear she knew he was feeling.

"Sonam and Makhlava… what's the kid's name?"

"Dato," the leopardess said, before adding, after a pause, "And I… don't wish to be rude… but it's not really polite to approach a mother's cub without her express permission…"

A tentative, cautious smile suggested that despite everything, she was allowing for the possibility that he meant them no harm. Maybe he was just a weird-looking madman of some sort.

"Yeah? Sucks," he said dismissively, not moving.

That wiped the smile off her face as quickly as it flattened her ears. But, despite everything… Sonam reacted.

"Hey…"he said dangerously, allowing just the beginnings of a growl to creep into his voice, "Don't speak to my mate like that, understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it—heheh. Kid's really a deep sleeper, eh?..."

That simple sentence carried with it an implicit threat, one that made the leopard step back, just a little, and stop baring his teeth as much. "Behave, or I'll kill your son." That was the threat, and it was an effective one.

"What… what do you want… Kifo? Why are you here?"

"I want a supermodel girlfriend, a personal squad of Ferraris and Lamborghinis, a mansion in upstate NY, and a cool million dollars, for starters."

"What I want that you can give me, though," he said, before smirking, wickedly, looking from Makhlava to Sonam, "Is one _Hell_ of a fight."

* * *

"What? But… why?" she said, obviously frightened, "We've done nothing to you—if we're in your way, or something, we'll leave immediately. Why do you want to fight us…?"

"Because it's fun and I'm bored. And," Kifo said, "I need practice. Got big things to do, see? I need to hone my skills on you fuck-os so that I can take on real opponents—no offense, I mean, I'm sure you guys will put me through my paces."

"I have no desire to fight you," Sonam said coldly, "I have no stake in your plans whatsoever, and I won't put my safety of my family at risk for your sake."

Kifo twitched a little at that. God_damn_ it, wherever he went, it seemed, no one cared about him. Blinking, seething, for a moment, he managed to swallow his anger, and let out a dangerous grin.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't really _asking_. I'm going to fight you—whether or not you fight back is up to you. Obviously, I'd like you to try, but you probably want to try, too. I'm not as tough as I look. If you legitimately try to beat me, who knows—you might do it."

Makhlava found herself curious, despite everything. This… thing, whatever he was… was talking about fighting and _dying_ so easily. She didn't know his motives—she didn't know anything about him, but despite everything, she felt somewhat curious and somewhat sorry for this being in front of her. The events that put him where he was must have been extreme.

But, looking at him, seeing the hollowness and the hunger and the hate in his eyes… she knew that there was no use in talking. Now… there was no choice but to act.

"Sonam," she said aloud, not taking her eyes off him, "We have no choice. We have to fight."

"Ah, see, she sees the light. What say you?" Kifo asked, smiling widely at the leopardess before looking at her mate, "Gonna stand up with your girly?"

After a pause, Sonam answered.

"You're right, Makhlava. We have no choice. But first, before we do anything," he said, just as Kifo prepared to stand, "I'd like to know something."

"Have you always been so arrogant?"

Sonam didn't say that.

Dato did.

And he said it a second before he stood, explosively fast, slicing upwards with his razor-edged claws too quickly to be evaded. Kifo roared in surprise and pain and jumped back, bringing his weapon to bear, but by then, the family was already on the move.

"FUCK! KISHINDO—STOP THEM!"

The demon wanted nothing more than to give chase to the family himself, but training held him back. Sure, he took a few steps forward, but that was to give himself space, a wider angle, and a better line of sight.

He knelt, slightly, peering down his optics—an EO Tech reflex sight, enhanced by a variable-power magnifier. The demon didn't bother to zoom in farther; rather, he just centered the 1 MOA dot of his sight on one of the fleeing cats, and, after holding his aim, for a moment, opened fire.

It wasn't a burst or a full-auto fusillade—it was a single shot, meant to be perfect. More than that would accomplish nothing, and even if he were to miss, he had another seventeen rounds ready to go.

But, as it turned out, Kifo hit his target.

* * *

One minute, Sonam was running faster than he ever had before in his life. Dato was just feet behind him, almost literally on his tail, and his mate was at his side. Hearts in their mouths, they didn't bother to speak—they just _moved_.

The next minute, he fell down—not too far, thankfully; they hadn't had time to climb very high—breaking through several branches, he attempted to scramble in midair to right himself, but it was too late. He hit the ground with an audible _thud_, instantly curling up in pain, wincing, putting a paw on his lower back.

Another few seconds passed before Dato and Makhlava were both at his side. They'd been moving fast, very fast, and, therefore, they'd been noisy. Kifo's bullet was supersonic of course, but in all the commotion, they hadn't heard the distinctive roar of its trajectory through the air.

They skidded to a halt around him, taking positions in preparation for defense. Makhlava spoken thinly, almost spitting her words out in order to communicate more quickly.

"What happened? Did you fall? Did something attack you?"

"I… ungh… not sure…"

Dato dared turn, for a second, knowing that an assault could come at any moment from any angle. It was then that he saw the rapidly growing pool of blood at his father's side, fed by a gaping wound directly in between his shoulder blades.

"NO! Father—MOTHER! He's hurt, badly—quickly, try to save him, I'll keep a perimeter up!"

There was no time or room for dissent. Before he'd even finished speaking, Dato was off, moving quickly to secure the area around them for at least a few yards. Fortunately, they were concealed from where Kifo had fired from, so, for the moment, they were safe from any follow-up barrages. After checking the forest in front of her for another second, Makhlava turned…. And froze.

She had seen a great number of grievous injuries throughout her life. Some, she'd caused, others, she'd had the pleasure of just witnessing during hunts or security checks of her territory. Some, she'd treated—her own, of course. Early in her life, she'd foolishly come between a mother bear and her cub. She'd almost died in the brawl that had ensued, but ended up retreating to lick her wounds. To such a young cub, a broken leg and any number of serious bite and claw wounds would have been fatal, but she patched herself up and was back on the hunt within the week.

But perhaps Dato overestimated his mother's medical prowess.

"Oh, Spirits…" she whispered.

Then, she moved.

Pinning his wound shut with her teeth, or trying to, Makhlava checked his vitals—they were present, but weak and irregular as shock began to set in.

But he could live. Makhlava could give him more than the few hours of half-existence that was the fate of mortally injured clouded leopards… maybe…

_"Alright. Alright. I can do this. I just need to get him to a safe place where he can hide, and leave him there—I'll use a rock, or something, to pinch his wound shut. Then, Dato and I will hold that thing off for just fifteen minutes. He'll be fine, by then, and when he's ready, we'll all make our escape together."_

_"But I wonder," _she thought, even as she began to drag her mate to a thick, protective clump of bushes, _"what is a Kishindo?"_

Makhlava then heard a somewhat chilling variation of a roar she'd come to fear—the roar of a lioness. What really made it terrifying was that it was accompanied by her son's voice, yelling in pain.

"DATO! No—Sonam…"

For a second, Makhlava was torn. Sounds of combat were starting to rip through the night—her son and the lioness, whoever she was, were fighting. And judging from how much he was yelling, things weren't going in his favor. But to assist him now would mean abandoning Sonam… but, if she didn't help her son out immediately, he'd surely die…

Closing her eyes for just a moment, Makhlava swallowed hard. Two tears rolled down her cheeks but that was all.

"The purpose of parents is to protect and care for their children. I'm sorry, Sonam…"

Hopefully that demon wouldn't come to finish him off before he woke up with the knowledge that he was doomed and had only hours left in him. Makhlava was counting on protecting her son until Sonam could join the battle, because, from the sound of things… that would probably be all she could do.

* * *

She had him in a headlock by the time Makhlava arrived. Dato was struggling, hard, clawing at her ironclad forelegs, even as his facial fur took on a ghastly blue tinge from the lack of oxygen in his blood. Kicking, he attempted to escape the vice-like grip around his neck; he wouldn't remain conscious for much longer…

And then, just like that, he was free.

Without even taking the time to wonder what had pried her from him, he gave himself a few yards of space, and, gasping, rubbed at his neck, for a moment, massaging his larynx.

"Oh, Mother… thank you…"

He didn't see her as much as he smelled her. Taking his eyes off a foe like this for even a second could be fatal, and everyone present knew it.

They were in a clearing, circling, a little. The lioness, who, he guessed, was the Kishindo the demon had called for, was backing up, slowly—facing both leopards at once, she probably wouldn't last long. So, her goal would probably be to stand her ground until her big buddy could come to finish things off.

"Can't let that happen."

Things were flopped from how they were a second ago. Now, it was the lioness that had to dodge the combined, furious assault of the mother and son team. Dato kept pressure up with rapid blows and advances designed to keep her on her feet, preventing her from mounting an effective counter, while Makhlava danced out of range and jumped in, occasionally, with devastating strikes and tackles intended to inflict serious damage.

Wounds started to appear on her tanned fur, etching jagged marks into her weatherbeaten flesh. Kishindo hissed, eyes darting from fighter to fighter, knowing that she was on her own for a few seconds yet, until Kifo arrived. It was time to take a stand.

She planted her feet, and that was it. The line in the sand had been drawn—she wasn't retreating any more.

Kishindo allowed Dato to cut her up, a little; his incredibly sharp claws made tic-tac-toe marks on her shoulders. She reached through his furious strikes, though, and grabbed his _face_, sinking her claws into his fur and twisting, viciously, half-skinning him.

Makhlava, of course, jumped to her boy's defense. But this time, Kishindo was ready for her. The leopardess slashed down, hard… or tried too. Kishindo managed to bar the attack, pushing, even as Makhlava's claws inexorably approached her face…

The lioness sidestepped and allowed Makhlava's assault to land harmlessly next to her. She was about to bite her, just below the neck, but Dato was on her by then.

The tables really had turned. Now, not only was Kishindo pinned in a headlock, albeit one that wasn't nearly as powerful as hers, and one that she stood a chance of escaping by struggling hard, which she was doing, but Makhlava was striking, over and over and over, cutting the lioness into ribbons.

Blood loss made Kishindo's vision blur, but pain brought it sharply back into focus. The lioness struggled harder yet, flexing almost all of her muscles in a desperate attempt to get free, but it was of little use. Every time she gained an inch, Makhlava boxed her face or ears, putting her back in square one. This was a tough situation…

_"But I'm used to being the underdog, come to think of it. I was the underdog as a cub, just like Scar… I was an underdog when my so-called friends and I tried to overthrow that bastard, and I was an underdog when I had to scratch a living to get back in the game. This is nothing new—I can win this. But… where's Kifo?"_

For just a second, the lioness froze up, playing dead. Dato refused to let go, though, and just applied more pressure… then, slowly, relaxed his grip, just a little. Makhlava stood at the ready, not trusting that the lioness was dead for a second. Claws extended, she moved to check Kishindo's vitals when he came.

He dropped to the ground from several feet up in the air. Taking the impact to a knee and a fist, he landed in a crouch, weapon caressed at his side. Then, slowly, he stood, feet shoulder width apart, before, dangerously, approaching.

The darkness of the forest didn't compare to the black hatred blatant on his face—it was overwhelming, so much so that Dato and Makhlava were frozen; deer in the headlights, unable to think or react.

"You…" he said softly, before yelling, "BETTER… not have killed her. If you did, oho…"

"No, boy, don't worry… Zira's still around."

Just like that, the lioness pulled herself from Dato's grip, and, giving him a shove, stepped a few feet away—but not towards Kifo; rather, she took position behind the leopards, in case they decided to try to run again.

Slowly, Kifo calmed. Makhlava bit her lip—now, she saw the folly of not killing the lioness when she had the chance. Now, she and Dato were in a difficult position, and it was of no consolation that they'd put themselves in it by freezing up.

The demon was starting to laugh by then, a terrible, unsettling sound. Kishindo joined in, so Makhlava managed to speak to her son without being overheard by either of them.

"Dato… that can't happen again. We can't freeze up like that, ever again, understand? I know these two are… terrifying. But if we forget that and fight, we can beat them. I know we can. Now," she said, managing to give him a smile, for a second, "Let's get back to back. I'll take the lioness… you take him. But watch out for that thing he's carrying, it looks dangerous. Focus on your agility, son, and hold no punches. We can_not_ lose."

She felt him nod, somehow, even though he was behind her, facing away. Their opponents were still laughing, loudly, but Makhlava knew better than to try to escape. The only way to live through this would be to put both of them down for the count… or permanently.

"Where's that husband of yours?" Kifo asked, suddenly, grinning toothily, "Didn't kill him, did I? Ahh…" he snapped his fingers in disappointment, "I figured you folks were tougher than that—oh well. I'll go easy on you, okay? I promise."

"Keep talking," Makhlava said, "The longer it takes for this fight to end, the more likely it is that the White Sands lionesses will come. If that happens, I don't think siding with a leopard will be above them. Not if it means killing you both—what are you?"

"MYOB, bitch," Kifo said, suddenly bored of chatter, "Let's do this."

Makhlava considered pressing him, for a moment. She sensed, though, as an exception to the general rule, that angering creatures like these wouldn't make them worse fighters—so, she merely nodded, never taking her eyes off the feline in front of her, and spoke.

"Alright… let's do this."

Silence took over, for a moment. Kifo hadn't raised his weapon, and knew that doing so probably wouldn't be wise. At point-blank range like this, he could hit Kishindo just as easily as he could hit his enemies. Of course, the demon didn't take his paws off it—Dato might interpret that as an opening, and, at close range like this, there was absolutely no way Kifo would be able to do anything to keep the leopard off him.

Kishindo was slinking around, circling Makhlava, a little—she couldn't leave more than two hundred or so degrees clear, because the leopardess might interpret that as an escape. As she surveyed her opponent, though, Kishindo realized… she was a _lot_ tougher than her son.

In the end, it was Kifo that broke the stalemate. In an unprecedented maneuver (like the bailouts), he jumped straight up, roaring, and aimed downwards. He knew he'd have to watch his fire still, but at least Dato wouldn't be able to go on the attack for a few seconds.

Rising five, then ten, then fifteen feet with no signs of slowing down, Kifo started to shoot. He'd never really tried something like this before, but it was essentially the same as shooting on the move in any other situation: he didn't bother to go for precision shots; rather, he just held his FAL tightly and unleashed a five round barrage at Dato. Brass and smoke were expelled into the air as the fight began.

The leopard not only heard but _saw_ the bullets approach, though, and jumped to the side. Spinning around twice, he ignored the divots blown into the rich, dark choco—soil where he'd just been, and ran towards a nearby tree. His goal was to climb it and attack the demon before he'd reached the apex of his jump.

The moment Kifo attacked, Kishindo did too—so did Makhlava. The lioness was surprised by that as well as the ferocity of her opponent, and so, for a few moments, the two felines were deadlocked. Never more than a few feet from one another, each dodged, gave, and took one or two minor bites, three or four scratches, and at least six powerful blows to the face or forelegs. Makhlava changed things, though, by getting an upper hand when Kishindo moved in for a claw-strike to her face.

The fighting style of the clouded leopards of the Black Hills was short-range, to be sure. But not only did it involve the rapid-fire claw-strikes Dato was famous for, or the heavier combinations of paw-strikes, bites, shoulders, and kicks that Sonam and Makhlava preferred. It was one that favored techniques that were hard to pull off, to be sure, but devastating if landed.

Kishindo's paw was a blur in the air, backed by the lioness's face, snarling, before Makhlava cleanly blocked it. Rather than pushing back, though, or merely pinning the lioness's paw to go for a lock, the leopardess pulled, turning, and slid her own paw towards where Kishindo's throat would be in about second.

She missed out of sheer bad luck, but the lioness was still brought to the ground with her foreleg twisted and in Makhlava's grasp. That was hardly an advantage—her paw was occupied as well. Though Kishindo had gotten the wind knocked out of her by the surprising maneuver, she had recovered, and fast.

Makhlava tried to go for the lioness's throat two more times, but Kishindo dug her chin into her chest to give herself some protection. Lashing out with her other set of claws, furiously, she pushed against the ground with her feet, trying to get up.

The leopardess knew she wasn't going to do anything for herself by continuing the fight like this. It was time to change the odds.

Digging her claws into the lioness's foreleg and pulling, hard, she aimed to rip out muscle, tendon, and, hopefully, a few major blood vessels as she moved off. To be sure, Kishindo roared in pain, but the lioness was, stunningly, almost as fast as she was. She'd turned her foreleg, blocking the worst of the attack with her bones—she'd still had a sizeable chunk of flesh and fur pulled right out of her, but it was far from a debilitating injury.

* * *

Dato had clawed his way straight up the tree, dodging branches and bullets alike as he looked directly at his enemy. Just a few more feet, just a few more feet… there!

The leopard flipped off after digging his paws into the bark. For a second, his back faced the ground as he outstretched his claws, using them to guide himself towards Kifo. Twisting in midair, he peeled his lips back into a snarl—his jump was perfect.

The demon wasn't half as agile as his opponent and was still trying to turn to track him when he was struck. As it turned out, he was tackled at the very apex of his jump—a whopping thirty feet off the ground.

Exhaling explosively so as to minimize the traumatic assault, Kifo winced as Dato's razor-like claws dug into his belly. Feeling his legs hang back for a second as his body was thrown forward due to the inertial property of matter (as explained by Bill Nye), he looked around, desperately, for something to grab onto… thirty feet—no, twenty five, now… was a long fucking way to fall.

Dato had been lucky, though, and had launched Kifo towards empty space. There would be no breaking this fall, and the second the demon realized it, he stopped focusing on protecting himself, and started focusing on hurting his enemy. Though Dato was far faster and far more agile than he… Kifo was stronger, five times over. And he was _mean_.

The demon reached around and managed to grab Dato by the scruff of his neck—it was sheer luck, but it loosened the leopard's grip out of instinct trailing from early cubhood, if just for a second.

That was all the respite Kifo needed.

He pulled, hard, bicep flexing, and managed to yank the leopard, along with a few patches of fur from his belly, off. Dato yowled and clawed at the demon's arm, but Kifo was triumphant.

"Ha, bitch! Take _this_!"

The demon threw Dato, aiming for a nearby tree. Grinning evilly, smirking, he paused, for a second—he'd forgotten something, something very important; what was it?

Oh, that's right.

He was still falling."Oh shi—"

Kifo had no time to brace himself. He tried to curl into a ball at least, but there was no time for even that. He ended up taking the landing to his feet, rolling forward sloppily as he slid across the topsoil, mowing down a few man-sized ferns in the effort. He heard a sickly, meaty _crack_ as he landed, and, the second he stopped moving, almost seized up in pain.

_"Fuck, fuck, fuck, my ankle!"_

Kifo hadn't landed evenly on both feet. His right foot had hit ground first, and since he hadn't relaxed his muscles before landing, he'd taken the majority of the impact to his right ankle, pulverizing it—oh, it would heal, of course, but not for a few moments at least… and, in those few moments, who knew what could happen?

Grinding his teeth so hard that he soon bled from his mouth, the demon managed to stand, furiously throwing away his rifle's spent magazine, fumbling, before snapping one into place. He looked to where he'd thrown Dato—but the leopard was nowhere in sight.

As sounds of Kishindo and Makhlava's fight were drowned out by a dull, metallic ringing in his ears, the demon struggling to contain his anger. Lip twitching, vein throbbing, lungs pumping to flood his system with oxygen… he didn't last long.

"BASTARD! COME OUT!"

The rest of what Kifo yelled was less polite and coherent. It was, at first, accompanied with a few shots that blasted fist-sized holes out of the trees—but that was a waste, and the demon knew it. Swearing, he shoved his rifle out of the way, letting it dangle on its sling, for a moment, before managing to assume an unarmed fighting stance despite his injury.

"I said… COME OUT!"

Kifo's left hand was forward, held open, while his right hand was fisted, its knuckles near his temple. Gaining energy, for a second, he roared, and snapped into action.

Stepping forward with his right foot, he slapped his left hand down, forcing his torso to turn faster. Accumulating all the energy from his toes to his shoulder to his wrist, he shoved his right hand forward, palming into the air.

A massive ball, formed, seemingly, of black smoke, howled through the air. It stank of rotting meat and soot, trailing ash and dust as it arched towards its target. Its center seemed alive, somehow; perhaps… black fire, somehow, but when it struck the ground, it certainly didn't burn.

It exploded.

It wasn't an explosion that could easily be reproduced by conventional methods—perhaps a precise concoction of flash powder and C4 might have approximated something like it, but probably not. There were two distinct stages to the blast—the first was rapid; a high-pressure shockwave that, when closely viewed, might seem a bit like a stampede of angry cattle rushing towards areas with higher concentrations of life. This primary blast shattered things, cracking them; creating fault lines and weak points for the second level of the explosion to exploit.

This secondary explosion wasn't nearly as fast—it was slow but _powerful_, as menacing and inexorable as a tsunami. Rolling out through the Black Hills slow enough to easily see, it shoveled everything, everything but the trees, outwards powerfully enough to toss them for hundreds of yards.

Kifo was still hyperventilating, veins throbbing in rage. He had his rifle back into his hands, just _waiting_ for Dato to give him a clear shot, but, after being patient for ten seconds, it became clear that wasn't going to happen.

Then, a soft click from above told the demon that the hunter had become the hunted.

Though he'd been thrown hard, Dato hadn't been injured. He'd landed on the tree, albeit painfully, but instead of sliding or climbing to the ground, managed to spring off and leave the immediate area, where Kifo would look for him first. As such, the explosion didn't hurt him—though it did scare him, a little. His enemy was a walking field artillery piece, it seemed.

Regardless, he was an opportunistic predator by nature. He hunted by getting into an advantageous position, hiding, and then waiting for the prey to come to him—this hunt was no different. Perched fifty feet above Kifo, the leopard knew he was taking a risk. At best, he'd dropped on prey from maybe forty feet up, before. However, a serious blow needed to be dealt in order to give him a good chance of winning this fight.

Unfortunately, a twig—that was all, a twig, no larger than a pencil, but positioned just so, ruined his plans. It alerted the demon to his presence, as he snapped it while falling through the air, aiming to bring Kifo down.

The demon wasn't able to get out of the way. Dato had extended his forelegs but folded his paws, lowering his head to make his profile as aerodynamic as possible. He rocketed through the air at a speed well above normal terminal velocity due to his posture—taking a hit from a projectile like him would _hurt_.

Kifo stepped aside, just a little—it was all he had time to do. Dato's eyes widened as he did, though, and, desperately, the leopard tried to change his trajectory, just a little, just a little—

Too slow. Perhaps intentionally, the demon had moved just enough to put his shoulder where his head had been a heartbeat ago. Dato had aimed to crush Kifo's head. Now, he was careening towards a thick block of solid bone too fast to stop—the impact would be as devastating to him as it would be to his opponent.

Somewhat otiosely, Kifo fired one shot, then two, then three. He hadn't had a moment to aim, though, so they streaked harmlessly past the leopard, leaving little sonic ripples in their wake as they arched into the air.

Finally, Dato struck.

For a moment or two, neither fighter was quite sure what was going on. Both were on the ground, dazed, struggling to get up. Neither was seriously injured, but the collision had hurt Dato more than it had Kifo. So, it was the demon that managed to stumble to his feet, first…

* * *

Kishindo twisted herself to her paws, injured foreleg clung close to her chest for a moment. Hissing loudly, warning Makhlava not to think for a second that the slight… inconvenience was an advantage, the lioness swallowed her pain, and, a moment later, had all four paws on the ground again.

Silently, expression sharp and alert, the clouded leopardess circled. She looked into her enemy's eyes, mostly, searching for fear or insecurity or a split-second warning for some attack. In the darkness, Kishindo would probably have a slight disadvantage, but how significant this was remained to be seen. The lioness was still extraordinarily fast, especially for a lioness, and reasonably stronger than Kishindo.

Her eyes shifted, though, glancing past Makhlava to see if Kifo was okay. And that was the leopardess's opening.

She moved with stunning alacrity, racing across the ground almost too quickly to track. Kishindo could hardly raise a foreleg in defense before she was tackled.

Both felines were thrown out over the ground, sliding, striking and clawing at each another the whole way. Eventually they stopped, thanks to a tree, but the fight certainly didn't. Things only got more vicious as Kishindo refused to submit, though she was on the ground and quickly showing signs of succumbing to Makhlava's relentless assault.

Quickly, the lioness was bleeding, and severely. She could hardly see more than brief flashes of the leopardess's paws, making blocking or parrying or dodging or reacting at all… difficult, to say the least.

For Kishindo, things weren't going well. But her enemy was a leopardess, and fought with two limbs, not four.

Her loss.

Makhlava couldn't see the wicked glint in Kishindo's eyes due to the lack of light, and the fact that she was busy pummeling her opponent with the intent of killing her. It came as a shock, therefore, when she was lifted off her paws, thrown into the air, by a powerful and well-placed kick.

The leopardess had time to get in one more strike, then two—the latter caused Kishindo's head to suddenly snap back, a jagged cut etching into her fur, just above her eye, even as Makhlava looked up.

That… wasn't a very good decision.

A good decision for the leopardess, then, would have been to curl up and duck, shielding her head from serious injury. As a result of not being a good little girl and making good decisions, she was punished by ramming the tree that had stopped herself and Kishindo from sliding across the ground… headlong.

Dazed, seeing stars, the leopardess managed to land on all fours. Gasping, panting, blinking hard, only vaguely aware of the fact that she was in a fight, the leopardess was a sitting duck for Kishindo's revenge.

Stylistically, the lioness was brutal. The Human—Lion Sheikh might use the word "inhumane" to refer to her actions, but such a term hardly applies to a feline.

Getting to her feet with practiced speed, the lioness took no chances, at first. Teeth bared in a vicious snarl, claws unsheathed and ready to go, she paused, for a moment, peering at her enemy. Makhlava was clearly still dazed and incapable of fighting… so the lioness laughed.

First it was just a little, but quickly, her peals of mirth grew into something overwhelming, dark, terrifying. By the time the lioness was finished, slowly tilting her head downwards after throwing it back, Makhlava was moaning in pain, groggily attempting to turn to face her enemy.

"Don't bother, you pathetic…" Kishindo sneered. Striding over to the leopardess in a brisk, businesslike fashion, she coldly backpawed Makhlava across the face, making the leopardess's head snap to the side, nearly breaking her neck.

The lioness tasted blood from the numerous cuts on her face, most notably the deep wound above her eye, and grinned, dangerously, the rapidly coagulating fluid dripping from her maw.

"I'm disappointed. Really, I am. I figured," she snarled, inserting her claws into Makhlava's side and twisting, making the leopardess almost seize up in agony as a practical cookie was cut out of her flesh, "You'd give me a _little _more trouble than this. That you wouldn't be dropped with one hard hit. It seems I was mistaken. So now, I'm disappointed."

Kishindo then proceeded to strike Makhlava this way and that, keeping her claws extended. The clouded leopardess had neither a chance to recover or run or fight back, so was instead reduced to attempting to roll with the blows, stepping back, farther and farther, with every passing moment.

Something had to chance. Something had to change soon, or Dato and Makhlava would be no more.

* * *

Kifo wasn't the only being in the Land of the Spirits that could shift pure malice into a coherent form. He also wasn't the only one that could fight without sleeping, eating, or resting—though all of the above did increase his combat effectiveness.

What made the demon special, though, was that he was autonomous. Independent. Impossible for the Spirits to kill by cutting him off from his former master.

Unlike the Black Army.

I hope you haven't forgotten about them. After all, no one living in the Eastern Jungle ever will.

Open warfare had quickly degenerated into ambush and guerilla-esque tactics on all sides. Suicide bombings, shoot-and-runs, remotely activated rocket strikes… the area had been transformed into a practical Baghdad.

The Black Army fighters hadn't changed—they hardly could. Their master had learned from the failure of the Kifo experiment, so to speak, and well. By maintaining complete control over the Black Army, he ensured that they would always do his will exactly how, when, and where he wanted them to. The disadvantage, of course, was that on the rare occasions that the Spirits would reach down to their lands or try to, he was forced to put them on standby, so to speak—making them collapse, useless piles of metal and flesh.

On the rare occasion when the Black Army was able to find large concentrations of the White Army and spray with their MG36s, they could drop bodies with ease. The trouble was that the White Army was as adaptable as it was effective—this was a mercenary group, the best in the lands now that the Bloody Shadows were finished.

Now that it became clear that their enemies weren't enemies that could be pounded into submission by mere waves of flesh or carefully planned sneak attacks, they were in hiding and using their minds—damned powerful for monkeys'—to fight.

The Eastern Jungle was home to a number of plants that contained chemicals that most had come to avoid. But the White Army had its fair share of members with degrees in chemistry—that is, they were well-versed in the arts of creating explosives.

Of course, they weren't cranking out MLRSs or cluster bombs or mortars (though that would be pretty fucking sweet if they could). What they were doing were rather crude, improvised weapons—simple devices that could be equipped with fuses, wire detonators, or bombs that were set off by sheer trauma.

They had set up a more or less base in the eastern part of the jungle. The land's anarchic residents had come to _tolerate_ the White Army; without their most powerful allies, the Nomads, they were defenseless against the Black Army. To be sure, the White Army wasn't in any way allied with the beings they'd been assigned to massacre by Kisuse (who, by the way, had abandoned them entirely). It was just a "the enemy of my enemy is my 'friend'" sort of deal.

The residents of the Eastern Jungle served as an alarm system—whenever the Black Army got too close, the White Army would blow up half the jungle with planted explosives, or unleash a barrage of rockets. Like this, they were more or less secure, and free to move out and set up ambushes and other attacks at their relative leisure.

It took a lot of manpower, so to speak, and a lot of infrastructure to reduce any number of plant parts to more pure forms of chemicals that could be used—some had to be boiled just so, some had to be carefully cut open and roasted over high temperatures, some had to be tempered, quenched, et cetera…

In the end, though, the power offered by little wrapped up bundles of goodness, or logs hollowed out to form tubes for cone-tipped rockets was worth it. The Black Army was overpowered at long ranges, and during ambushes.

Still, they held their own. One of them had died in an attack, when a dozen or so heavily armed members of the White Army had caught him alone and beaten him into separate, bloody parts at close range, but it was inconsequential. They were still five strong, and their Master had every intention of adding to their numbers as soon as possible.

The problem, though, was that to get energy to give to his subordinates, he had to commit acts of evil. And in a land with too many baddies with too little trust, and too many goodies resisting them, it was hard—it really was—to get away with anything.

So, for the moment, the Eastern Jungle was deadlocked—it was the White Army and their allies versus the Black Army. The White Army was depleting the natural resources it had at an unsustainable rate, but it was getting close to locking down the area, even as more and more of its members died off at the hands of their unearthly opponents. The Black Army just went on, patrolling through the jungles alone or in pairs, picking off whatever moved.

The only ones that were really losing were the nonsentients, and the only thing that really was winning was evil in the abstract—that is, evil that couldn't be directed or manipulated. Overall, the situation was bad and getting worse, fast, but the White Army was stuck where it was—if it attempted to retreat, the Eastern Jungle natives would eliminate it, entirely. The Black Army wasn't _nearly_ strong enough to survive for more than a few days in the Unexplored Regions or the Falme, and exfiltration elsewhere would just trade one problem for another.

Something had to give. And then, one day, when what herds remained in the lands left the Barren Plains of the Southeast, something did.

* * *

"Heheh."

"It's so nice… to be back home. Kurt—you scout ahead. If anything's changed since we left, I want to know it, and I want to know it now. Aldrik, Silvester; you're on me. We're going to make sure that the herds aren't too far behind us, so that we time the Feast properly—"

"No one's going anywhere…"

This voice was calm, soothing, spoken in a slow, polite tone. It suggested an ever-forgiving nature on the part of the speaker… and that wasn't far off the mark.

Looking to the lion that had spoken first, the one with broad shoulders and a long, thick auburn mane, he smiled, speaking in that same, gentle tone.

"Dietz, please, nephew, don't be so hasty to take over—I'm still alive, aren't I? I'm still the leader of this pride… aren't I?"

The question was an implicit challenge; a not-so-subtle way of asking the much younger and _much_ bigger cat to acknowledge his uncle's rule. For a moment, it seemed that things really might come to nasty words which would lead to violence; Dietz's choleric nature was well known and, in some cases, well-liked among the pride.

But now wasn't the time. Not now—not today. It was too soon, and there were still many things to learn from the old one, whose decisions weren't _too_ bad… just, not as great as the ones Dietz determined to make.

Swallowing, remembering his place before assuming a laudable approximation of humility and repentance, he smiled, bowing his head a little.

"Of course, of course, Uncle… forgive me, it's just that leadership is in my blood…"

Damn. These things never came out right, but the older cat didn't seem to take offense.

"Ah, of course it's all right. I can't blame you for doing what's natural."

There was silence, for a moment. They'd arrived, unintentionally, just a few moments before sunset. Even as light disappeared from the sky, as did color, the pride stood at the apex of a low, rolling hill. Their silhouettes shimmered, when viewed from the Eastern Jungle, rippling like mirages backed by the setting Sun.

'Let's trust fate," the leader said quietly, peering into his homeland carefully, "And take rest in our home, for just a few hours. After that, we'll do as my nephew suggested, and prepare for the feast."

"But Roderik," said a female, a young one with deep red eyes and angular features, "That's… not what we normally do, is it? Trusting fate… I don't like the idea. I think we should take no chances."

"I understand your concerns," Roderik said kindly, "But my decision is final. I have spoken."

It was damned annoying, at least, it was for Dietz, to hear his uncle's calm, gentle tones shutting out dissent and better ideas than his senile mind could conceive so readily.

"So, let's go," the old lion said, sighing in effort as he started to walk—his joints needed warming up before he could move without subjecting himself to pain, "I can't wait to be back home again.

* * *

"My Spirits…"

_"This is why there's wisdom in taking no chances, you old fool."_

"Roderik… what happened here?"

The old lion didn't answer, immediately. He just took his time, looking around, panning his vision slowly—as if it was necessary to glean every little bitty detail about the scene in front of the pride. What was needed now was action—what did it matter if there were fifty broken, charred trees or fifty-one; what did it matter how many hundreds of these… strange, sand-colored casings were piled on the ground?

"I… don't know," he finally answered, "I have never seen, or heard, of… something remotely like this before, not once in my many years. This… whatever we're looking at, that is… it's not an… incident… with any precedent that I know of."

"It might even be a good thing; I do not know. Perhaps the Spirits are sending us a message of some sort… or perhaps it's something else that's sending us a message…"

It was generally accepted against the Nomads that the Spirits weren't the only powers in the land—they were just the only ones worthy of worship. This, though… if some other supernatural entity had caused it, it would mean that the Spirits were either not worth spending valuable time acknowledging and praising, or that they weren't the only ones worth spending time acknowledging and praising.

"Whatever it is, Uncle," Dietz said, taking his relative's side, eyes alert for signs of movement, "I don't think there's wisdom in staying so close. We should leave someone behind, as a sentinel—the rest of us should find a safer place to sleep… and, until we figure out what's going on, we should cancel the Feast."

"Bold, nephew… but not too bold. You're correct, in your sentiment," the old lion said, "But postponing the Feast, indefinitely?... this is something we should not do. Not at this stage, not with so little information. But the rest of your plan… it's sound."

Smirking, satisfied, the future leader of the Nomads nodded, half-bowing. He paused, though, and, keeping his head lowered, looked up at his uncle. "Then… may I…?"

Roderik nodded slowly, smiling graciously. He wasn't unsettled by the arrogant glint in his nephew's eyes—he'd simply grown used to it, and was starting to assume that his own old eyes were either playing tricks on him, or Dietz just had his share of oddities.

"Alright, then… Kurt," Dietz said sharply, looking to who was essentially his right hand man, a dark-furred lion with a knack for seeing things that others missed, "You're to hide here until the rest of us come for you. As for the rest of us," he said, turning to the group at large, "There's a clearing to the north that's difficult to access and gives us plenty of escape routes, plenty of opportunity to fight back, just in case. Follow me… it's not too far, so keep it quiet. We can't be followed."

The pride gave a nod of general assent, and prepared to depart. The two or three lionesses that had been looking out around, ensuring that they weren't being surveyed or tracked stood and protected the group's flanks. Another posed as rear guard, so it was Dietz and Roderik who led the pride.

"How was that, Uncle?"

Mostly, Dietz spoke to keep his mind occupied and sharp, but, partially, even he had to admit, the advice of the Nomads' current leader was valuable, if taken with a grain of salt.

"Very good, nephew, very good," the old lion said. He and his younger relative were side by side, not looking at each another—their attentions were completely on their surroundings. Paranoia, or caution, was prudent and necessary at that point in time.

"You issued the orders in a brief, succinct manner, but offered some rationale behind them—this serves to show the rest of us that you're not acting on instinct alone. I do think, though," he said, causing Dietz to twitch, knowing that some silly, uninvited criticism was sure to follow, "That you may have been a little more… calm… in your wording. This is a situation that can't be taken lightly, to be sure, but I would not call it an emergency," Roderik said delicately, "You might have created some unnecessary fear."

_"Who cares, you old fool?... fear is motivation."_

"I understand, Uncle. In the future… I'll be more careful."

"Good," Roderik said, still in his pleasant, calm voice, before adding in a somewhat more intimate tone, one that suggested that he really was speaking from the heart, "This is why I'm certain that, when the time comes, you'll be a great leader."

Dietz thought of how to reply, for a moment, then just decided to keep silent.

_"Of course I'll be a great leader, it's in my blood—I would be a great leader now, if you didn't overstep your boundaries. To be sure, I was too young to rule when my beloved father died. You took control then, and that was justifiable."_

_"But I've been capable of ruling for years, now. Yet, you cling to your undeserved position with the same fervor that you cling to your life."_

Dietz sighed, though, and swallowed his anger. It wasn't his day, not yet; but the day that he would take control of his pride, as was his well-deserved right was approaching, and fast. Perhaps he could even exploit this little crisis to expedite the removal of his uncle from power.

Scheming and plotting as always, the _lipard_ kept walking.

He wondered, vaguely, if his heritage had anything to do with the lack of widespread support for his acquisition of power. That might be so, but it was not likely—though his health had been ailing and his appearance strange, in his youth, now, there was hardly a trace of the fact that his mother was an Eastern leopardess. In fact, the myth that his biological mother was the lioness that had raised him since birth was still rampant in the pride, largely due to a well-organized propaganda effort by his father.

Dietz looked up—they'd arrived at the area he'd designated as their home, for the next few days. It wasn't ideal for hunting, but it was perfect for defense or escape; exactly what the situation called for.

The clearing had been created in a storm, a year or so ago, when a lightning bolt had started a furious but short-lived forest fire that had burned down a few old, tall trees, clearing the forest for a few yards in all directions. Now, a dozen or so saplings battled for the vacuum created by the fall of the giants, offering good cover and protection.

"Is this our destination?" Roderik asked, turning to his nephew.

Dietz nodded.

"Alright, then…" the old lion said, "We've arrived. Everyone… I want you all to rest for at least two hours before you do anything else. After that, you can hunt, but I don't want anyone to be more than five miles from this place, and closer than ten miles from where Kurt is."

Despite everything, Dietz had to hand it to his uncle—he was generally sensible, and everyone complied with his decisions, and, for the most part, came to see the wisdom in them, if after the fact.

The lipard sat down, then turned to his side. His uncle did the same, albeit more slowly—relaxing, these days, was as painful as moving from a cold start. All around the two leaders, the rest of the pride prepared to take rest as well.

"So… now that we've had time to think about things, do you have any guesses as to what we saw, Uncle?" Dietz asked. He was genuinely curious, this time, and who knew—perhaps, after reflection, Roderik might have been able to draw some parallel with the strange scene they'd come across and something more familiar.

"A few," the old lion said, "But that's all they are—guesses."

"It could be, as I said before, a signal from the Spirits, or some other power. But since saying this doesn't help us in the slightest, let's ignore these possibilities, for the moment."

"The other possibility is that someone, or something, or a group of someones or somethings skilled in the use of magic was responsible for it. If this is true," Roderik said, "It could be that they were fighting, or just testing out some incantation or weapon. The ramifications of this possibility are diverse and expansive… it's too early, and we have too little information, to say anything with definition. All of what I've said, just now, could be totally off the mark. We have no idea what we're dealing with here."

* * *

_"I'm glad that Dietz trusts me so much; after all, he is my future leader. But I wish he wouldn't make me do boring things like this."_

Kurt was in a tree, carefully concealed from most angles. His dark fur meant that he blended into the shadowed, thick canopy well, making him ideal for surveillance like this.

But still.

_"There's nothing out here. Nothing—I've been sitting here for over an hour, and nothing's happened …That's not entirely true. Now, the burned trees are smoking less, some fires have died down…"_

If Kurt was following someone, it certainly wasn't himself.

"I suppose I may as well go to sleep," the lion murmured out loud, slowly closing his eyes. He didn't lower his head; in case something did happen he'd be ready to react that much faster. Not that anything was likely to happen.

It was over five hours later when Kurt's eyes flickered open as if on their own accord. He didn't stretch, though, or sigh as he woke… something didn't feel right, and he didn't want to give away his position. He'd woken up for a reason, and he knew it.

Something was moving behind him, approaching his general position. Kurt felt concern, and, slowly, extended his claws, eyes narrowing. Had he been spotted? Was he about to be attacked?

The answer to both questions turned out to be no, apparently. Whatever was coming came directly under the lion, beneath his branch. It was frustrating that Kurt couldn't see it, whatever it was, but, at least, it couldn't see him, either. At most, the lion caught a few glimpses of limbs, furless skin, and a metallic glint, but that was all—he had no idea what he was looking at.

Now, generally, Kurt would have taken the chance to lean over, a little, to get a better view of whatever wasn't five yards from him. That, or he would have silently leapt to another branch, a higher vantage point, perhaps. But something held him back… and that something was _fear_. Waves of fledgling panic washed over him, emanated by whatever being was now standing still, searching for something… searching for him, he was sure.

Suddenly, though, something else caught both Kurt's, and the unseen infiltrator's attention instantly. Movement, off ahead to the west. The lion looked up instantly, claws out, and, below him, he could feel the newcomer do the same.

It was a rustling sound, accompanied by a series of quiet hoots—monkeys. But, for some reason, Kurt felt certain that these weren't the monkeys he was used to, the ones he'd been around all his life—they moved with a determination and caution unfamiliar to him, he could tell that despite their great distance from him.

The being below him stepped forward, cautiously. Kurt felt a jolt of thrill—just a few more steps, and he'd see it, whatever it was.

The monkeys had stopped moving, at least, stopped moving so much that Kurt could easily see him. The lion wondered—was he about to witness a battle of some kind?... that didn't make sense; a group of monkeys versus a being so powerful that it inspired fear in _him_ though he hadn't rightly seen it?

_"Unless…"_ he thought rapidly, switching his gaze from the being below him, that was getting closer and closer to complete visibility, _"They caused this, somehow. If so… they have the power to take this..."_

Kurt _almost_ gasped. For a full moment, he froze up entirely, claws gripping the branch on which he was perched for dear life.

_"My Sprits… surely, this creature is _not _of your creation…"_

This Black Army fighter was of North African heritage. He sported short-cropped black hair, generously tanned skin, and stood at an average 5'8" tall. The rest of his appearance was Black Army standard—MG36, KAC Masterkey, a belt loaded with pouches filled with extra Beta-C magazines, probably a knife or two, and, of course, the unnatural manner in which "his" lower torso caved in to "his" spine, as if "he" was horribly malnourished.

Indeed—this fighter was not a creation of the Spirits, but the creation of something else; something far more… dastardly.

The question now, at least for Kurt, was what was going to happen next? The monkeys seemed to have disappeared; running away, perhaps wisely. Would the being below him move out and search for them? Or would he look around here, and, inevitably, eventually find him?

As it turned out, the answer was none of the above. The Black Army fighter didn't have to search for the monkeys, at all.

Their attack was in the form of a simple rocket; a hollowed-out branch stuffed with a volatile, powerful concoction, loaded into a larger hollowed-out branch, powered by a substance similar to its payload. Launched from a hundred yards away, it arched into the air, trailing smoke and flickering, sparkling particles—it was a low-velocity weapon, and gave the Black Army fighter at least five seconds to move. Even Kurt, who had no idea what he was looking at, would have gotten out of the way if it wasn't for the _thing_ below him.

But the Black Army fighter just looked up, sharply, and watched as the weapon zoomed down towards him. So, when it struck, not five feet from his position, he was injured, and seriously.

The blast, which brought leaves and branches down from vegetation for yards in every direction, offered Kurt cover. Though he would have liked nothing better than to be able to turn tail and _run_, he remembered his purpose, and that he had honor and a reputation—so, he just leapt up to a higher branch, one that offered a better vantage point, as well as more protection and more escape routes, and stayed there.

The Black Army fighter had been blown into a nearby tree, sinking at least an inch into its trunk. He struggled, for a moment, to get free, and then stood, looking over himself.

He'd been injured. His left arm hung at his side, uselessly, attached only by a few strands of flesh. But, as Kurt watched, those few strands started to thicken, grow, and reattach limb to joint.

_"Regeneration, eh… it's even faster than our medicine…"_

The lion jumped, then, as the Black Army fighter started to snap off shots. He did so slowly, so as to not overheat the heavy barrel of his light machinegun, but still launched a significant barrage of bullets in the general direction of his attackers. Plodding forward, slowly, lifting his left hand to steady his weapon, he peered down the sight of his weapon, eyes alert for movement.

Kurt watched as the shots fired by the machinegun splintered against whatever they hit, creating shallow but horrific cavities. The Black fighter was using a one in six tracer round combination, allowing him to keep his fire bang on target, directly within a few yards of where the monkeys had launched their rocket from.

Despite his terror, the lion had to admit—what he was watching was _astonishing_, and inspiring. The way the Black Army fighter marched, slowly, unleashing a ruthless attack, fixed, totally, on his goal… it appealed to Kurt in the deepest way.

The Black Army fighter was getting closer and closer to the area he was firing upon. The moment he got to within ten yards, though, the fight changed in an _instant_.

Six monkeys—white furred, with red symbols, now fading, etched onto their bodies, all armed with heavy sticks—jumped out of cover, shrieking, loudly. Moving with a speed Kurt hadn't seen in his sluggish, lethargic footsteps, the Black Army fighter held his machinegun at his hip and drew a knife in his left hand, using an icepick grip.

The lion couldn't see exactly what was going on, not from where he was—and he had no desire to get closer; in the fray that was currently raging on, he stood a very good chance of getting hit by a stray bullet even where he was.

And he'd seen enough—it was time to creatively interpret his orders, and get back to the rest of his pride.

Kurt started to move, swiftly yet silently, towards the north, following the scent trail left behind by the rest of the cats. A brief burst of bullets dotted the ground next to him as he slowly, carefully, quietly slunk away, vanishing from the area as completely as a phantom.

* * *

Politics, politics, politics—that's all Akane discussed with his father, nowadays. With his mother gone, he learned survival skills from watching not only the lionesses but the slaves, learning how they scratched out a living despite incredible conditions day after day after day.

It was a source of some inspiration, to him, to see how hard they worked for an incredibly improbable goal. Over his lifetime, Akane had seen countless slaves worked to death—whereas the number that had been set free could be counted on one paw. If the leopards could keep going for years on a single, far-fetched hope, he and his beloved could surely find solace in their search for freedom, at least.

Politics, politics, politics…

And some religion…

Akane's final nerves were wearing thin, but he always found a reasonable discharge for pent-up aggression and outrage in "friendly little sparring matches" between himself and his father.

Matches that he was now starting to win with surprising regularity.

Amir was still far bigger and stronger than his son, so when it came to extremely tight engagements heavy on wrestling moves, he had a distinct advantage. Otherwise, though, when blows were exchanged at ranges that allowed for Akane's rapid, fluid motion, Amir didn't stand a chance.

Even now, with only minutes left until Aoi was due to return, Akane was shadow-boxing. Paws wrapped up in dried wildebeest hide, he moved with _lightning_ speed. Breathing hard, and fast, he'd bounce back and forth, sidestepping, swiping at the air in practiced threats, before sudden moving in and striking rapidly with his forepaws, nine distinct blows in a second.

He'd been practicing for a few hours now. Not a word had crossed his lips, and scarcely a thought had crossed his mind… that is, except for Aoi. She'd dominated his mind, and his entire consciousness, for the past few days, now. Every breath he took, every move he made, every step he took, he found himself thinking about her; about how and where she was, if she was safe, if she was learning things, and enjoying her last interactions with her mother and his.

_"She'll be back, in just a few hours. I'll give her a few days to rest—I'd give her more, much more, but I don't think I'm cut out for another week in this Hellhole. I can't stand watching my father or a lioness lay down the law on the slaves, and I have no intentions of waiting for the pride to put the knowledge gained by her journey to use in the next assault."_

Practicing like this was almost therapeutic. These moves, they'd been so deeply ingrained into him now that they were part of his bones. Without thinking, he performed a complicated set of elbow strikes in various positions, including aerials, before coming to a halt _instantly_.

Talk about precision.

Akane was a well-oiled fighting machine, now, and it was of little doubt that the next time he put his skills to the test, he'd either win, or he'd be facing an opponent of a caliber almost unthinkable by the pride. In short, they looked _forward_ to seeing their greatest fighter in action. Massacres, after all, were a form of entertainment as ancient as the Romans.

"Akane."

He turned, chest heaving, and faced his father. Over the past few weeks, he'd changed, drastically—it wasn't just the fact that he'd somehow managed to gain a few pounds of healthy weight, and it wasn't just the more calm, confident posture he now sported. It was his eyes—they were as deep blue as ever, but now, they were _piercing_, and, Amir couldn't help but feel, cold, mistrusting, angry. Something vital and deep had changed in his son even as he watched, but he didn't know what it was, and he didn't know how to talk about it.

So, the leader just shook his head, briefly, smiled, and spoke.

"Son—your mother, your aunt Alina, and her daughter Aoi… they've been spotted. They're all alright, and should be at the dens within an hour."

A pause.

"And, in light of how much you've matured, in the past few weeks, of how much more I trust you… I've decided that, after we eat tonight, you will have as much time as you want with Aoi. Alone. I'm not sure what you feel towards her… but, of course, she is still a female. She is still young, and attractive—a little too young for me to consider as a viable second wife," Amir shrugged, "But perfect for you. Certainly, you should consider her; she's _almost_ worthy of you, my son, the greatest fighter in the White Sands."

"Thank you, Father."

The words were simple, concise, polite, formal… but utterly emotionless. Akane smiled, yes, but it was a smile that didn't melt the icy expression in his eyes. Amir felt the fur at the back of his neck prick up, a little; he couldn't shake a sentiment of suspicion directed at his own _son_.

The lion almost said something. Almost.

Instead, though, he just nodded, and jerked his head for his son to follow as he turned, slowly making his way to the dens. The White Sands were now not quite as pale as they were most of the year; windstorms had carried in dust from the Far East, giving their desert homeland a certain tan tinge—now, for a change, the lions that lived there were visible at a glance.

Noiselessly, Akane took his father's side. The young Prince couldn't help but feel a twinge of grim satisfaction as he noticed his father jump, just a little. Of course Amir said nothing, and of course he would say nothing, even though Akane sensed worry and concern emanating from his father constantly, in ever increasing waves. It was one thing when Akane was doing everything wrong, but now that he was doing everything right, at least, to all appearances… Amir had no idea what to do, except stay the course and hope that he merely didn't understand his son any less than he ever had.

The trip back to the dens was mostly silent. Once or twice, Amir tried to engage his son in conversation; that didn't go too well. Akane's responses were brief and succinct, just as he'd always been told were the best way of communicating, but for some reason, Amir wanted to hear his son's true thoughts.

Apparently, that wasn't going to happen.

Akane wasn't entirely concentrating on his father, though. Rather, he found himself worrying about whether or not that tuft of fur at the back of his head was standing on end, if he'd remembered to clean his paws, and how much Aoi had thought about him during their time apart.

It was torture for him to sit and watch, without pacing or rushing to meet her, as Aoi, Alina, and Aisha approached. To distract himself, he thought about low-priority things—how much meat he'd salted and sun-dried to preserve it, how carefully he'd hidden it…

Nothing, though, shortened the wait. Worse, Akane had to avoid staring, so as to not rouse his father's curiosity or suspicion. Finally, he decided to simply lay down and relax, at least, until Aoi was close enough to scent.

After what seemed like hours, Akane's nose twitched.

Then, he stood in a second.

The lionesses had assembled around his father, and, a moment later, the young Prince took Amir's side. Aoi… she was so close, now; close enough that Akane could see the precise shade of green in her eyes perfectly.

They were walking slowly, proudly, and stopped just twenty yards from their pride. Akane could see how much Aoi had changed over the past few weeks—she'd grown tougher, and more muscular, and there was now an innate shrewdness in her eyes he'd never seen before. The Prince's lips twitched… but it was his father who spoke.

"In the name of the Spirits, ever forgiving and powerful, and the Northern Deities… welcome home, Aisha, Alina, and Aoi. Welcome home."

"And, in the name of the Spirits, ever forgiving and powerful, and the Northern Deities… thank you, Amir. It's been quite some time."

Formalities were done. Instantly, the returning trio was swarmed by the rest of the lionesses. Congratulations, compliments and all manner of other praise was heaped on them. A moment later, Amir and Aisha embraced, in a manner so passionate and tender that it made Akane swallow hard, and close his eyes, so that he wouldn't do the same, albeit to Aoi.

The Prince took the time to greet his mother, and then, of course, Alina. He and Aoi only looked at each another once, shared a few polite, chaste words, then moved on—the whole exchange, they felt the eyes of the entire pride on them, and, so, were careful not to make a move, or say a word, out of place.

Interest in the returning three died down slowly. It was late afternoon already, the hottest part of the day, when the pride traditionally took rest to wait out the burning sun. This time, instead of retreating into the shadows of the tall structures they'd fashioned and carefully maintained out of dunes and logs from the Black Hills and sleeping, they spoke to one another, rapidly, about the findings that had been made in the Black Hills.

Akane pretended to be preoccupied, brooding—it wasn't hard. All of his attention, though, was on what the three reconnoiters had discovered.

The leopards were more or less stable in number; that was good, they wouldn't rise up against the White Sands. Overall, life seemed more or less normal, save for a stunningly high incidence of natural disasters. Aisha, whose mother and grandmother had taken a great deal of time and trouble to teach her about the ins and outs of the Black Hills in her youth, seemed especially fixated upon those set of facts. If it kept up, invading the Black Hills would be an increasingly risky proposition; lions just weren't built to withstand tornados and lightning storms. At least, not White Sands lions. After all, that's how Aisha had lost her mother and grandmother…

Then, as the bottom tip of the Sun touched the horizon, it was time to eat. Amir himself had gone out earlier that day to slaughter a few gazelles, leaving the female members of his pride to rest. There was plenty of meat to go around, and in troubled times like this, that was a luxury more and more rare to be experienced.

Akane ate slowly, so as to appear as relaxed and indifferent to the return of the females as possible. His mother seemed a little hurt that he'd started to act as he was supposed to so suddenly—yes, he was the Prince, and a male, but she was still his mother. Surely she deserved more from him than a single smile and a few seconds of eye contact.

Quickly, the gazelles had been eaten entirely—or, at least, their most savory parts had. The rest—the skin, the bones, the innards, and other parts were clumped up and left in a corner to be given to the slaves, later… who, Akane noted, hadn't been fed for a few days now.

Happy from the big meal, the lions were splayed out in the shade, preparing to do what they did best—sleep. Akane went so far as to set his head down and close his eyes; of course he wanted nothing more than to see Aoi, but he didn't want to be the one to mention it…

"Ah, yes," Amir said, "Akane… are you still interested in…?"

After a pause, pretending to think, the blue eyed lion nodded.

"I suppose, Father. Alina—my father, in all his glory and wisdom, requests that your daughter be allowed to spend as much time with me, alone… as I would like."

Gone were the days of the polite, courteous Akane. This Akane was following in the footsteps of his father with full gusto, it seemed—he was becoming as forceful and brash as necessary. He'd make a good leader, to be sure… but Alina couldn't help but blink. She wasn't used to being treated that way by her Prince.

"Yes, yes, of course, Ak—my Prince." The lioness bowed, and smiled at the lion; a smile which wasn't returned.

She bowed again.

"Aoi, daughter… do as our leaders, our males, desire…"

There had been the unspoken hope among the White Sands lionesses that when the time came for Akane to take power, their lot in life would be better. Of course, they held no delusions that they'd be _equal_ to males, but that was an outcome that was, to them, both impractical and undesirable.

"Yes, Mother," the young lioness said, submissively, "My Prince… please lead."

Akane merely nodded. As the lionesses and Amir watched, he and the youngest female of the pride left the dens, heading northwards. Somewhat awkwardly, the adults all looked at one another.

There were so many things that they all wanted to say. Amir wanted to express grief that his son was becoming as his father—Akane's grandfather—would have taken great pride in… as well as apology for fitting that mold too well. The lionesses wanted to denounce the way their kind were almost constantly treated in manners undeserved… but none said a word.

The White Sands had been an interesting land for generations. Civil war between not two but three distinct factions a few generations ago, famine, uprisings by the leopards, infighting, disease… these had all led to a vicious system, today, that was as destructive towards males as it was to females.

And, apparently, Akane's generation wouldn't change a thing.

* * *

"I think we're far enough now."

Slowly, he turned, deep blue eyes as unreadable as ever.

Aoi froze, midstep. Humbly, she only met his eyes for a second, before looking down. Akane was a good actor… hopefully. Because the way he'd treated her mother, the way he'd done so so convincingly, so _naturally_… he hadn't betrayed her, had he? He hadn't changed his mind… had he? Because, to be sure, there were clearcut advantages to be had for a young Prince that fell in step with the patriarchal system of the White Sands…

"Aoi?" he asked quietly, "Won't you… look at me?"

Timidly, knowing that this could very well be a trap, she did so.

Instantly, she was convinced.

"I'm so sorry, Akane. You had even me fooled."

"…Well… technically, we haven't been around each other very much."

A brief embrace was followed by more walking to the north. This time, however, they were side by side, smiles on their faces.

"There's not a scratch on you, Aoi. That's good—I hope you learned a lot during your excursion?"

"Very much," the lioness replied, "How to hunt other animals more effectively, how to hide, how to live in environments aside from our own, where we blend in so readily… It was very difficult, but I'm confident of my skills," she said, "As well as my ability to teach them to you, when the time comes."

_"When the time comes…"_

Akane shook his head. He'd address that, but not right now.

"And you, my Prince?" she said, teasingly, purposefully bumping her shoulder into his, "How have you fared, these past two weeks?"

"Well," Akane said simply, "Very well, in fact. I've been eating more, and I've been practicing fighting much more. Now, I can take on even my father in single combat; lionesses… are no match for my might."

Aoi laughed, softly, a sound somewhat like small bells clinging against one another.

"I've plenty of meat, preserved and hidden and stored away. We're going to it now, in fact—it's not very much, but we need to move quickly and quietly. Under the circumstances, it was the best I could do," he said heavily, "We haven't experienced a food shortage… but we no longer have surplus following surplus. The slaves, of course, were hit the hardest. Two of their cubs starved while you were gone."

"Oh… that's terrible," Aoi said, "I wish there was something we could do for them. But we'll be very lucky to escape with our own skins intact…"

Akane froze her with a look. It wasn't a look of anger—it was a look of incredulousity.

"Our own skins…"

The Prince of the lions of the White Sands had been taught, from when he was born, etiquette. How to be polite, how to be clean…

So, when he spat, all that compounded the nature of the action. He was beyond disgusted by that thought—their own skins.

"We're doing what we're doing for freedom," he said, "Liberty… or, apparently, so I thought. Please be very clear to me, Aoi—are we merely serving ourselves, working for our own well-being, or is there principle behind our actions? Are we just narcissists…?"

"Well no, Akane… certainly not, but… practicality," she said, "Our paws are tied… what—_how_ can we help the slaves? We can't take them with us; they're malnourished and injured. It'll do no one any good in the end—they'll be killed, and so will we, and our pride will just go and take more slaves. What's the point?"

"What you say is true, Aoi," Akane said slowly, before starting to walk again, so that she had to hurry to catch up, "But it's abhorrent—and I think there's an alternative."

"Before we go," he said, "Let's free one of them—just one. Whether that one escapes, or calls out in hopes of winning our pride's favor, or releases his brethren… it'll be his decision. Everyone deserves a chance to fight for their freedom. That's all I'm suggesting we give them—one chance. That's all."

Aoi had her reservations about Akane's plan, but it _probably_ wouldn't result in anything bad, for them. And who knew—perhaps things could turn out well. Aoi trusted Akane, and he was, obviously, very passionate about this issue.

The lioness nodded.

Akane nodded back, before smiling at her, a little guiltily, a little faintly. It was then that she saw in him the pain and outrage that had been inexorably collecting for the past days.

"That's another thing… we have to leave _very_ soon. I know you're tired from your trip, and Aoi, believe me when I say that I'm sorry for rushing things."

"But I can't… stand… my father, our pride… you don't understand," he said, "His Goddamned talk about the superiority of our pride, of our rights to enslave the leopards… the way he takes extra naps while the lionesses spend their every waking hour tracking the herds at our borders… And the lionesses themselves; they're indefensible. The way they treat the slaves… it sickens me. It does. I can't stand it, can't tolerate it… not for much longer, anyway. I'm almost at my breaking point."

After a moment, Aoi nodded slowly.

"As you said, Akane, I don't understand. I can't understand—I haven't spent as much time around your father as you have, and I haven't spent that much time around the elites of the lionesses. But I've certainly gotten more than a few tastes of what you're talking about, and if it's so bad that even you can't stand it… I don't want to put you through it anymore. We're leaving tonight."

They'd come a long way while speaking; it was only now that Akane realized how far they'd come. They were beyond being easily tracked or even spied by their pride members; only a conspiracy of some sort would have fostered the effort and will to keep track of them, where they were now—in a remote part of the White Sands, largely unvisited by the pride because there was _nothing_ there.

Akane sighed once, overlooking a sea of sand. Then, he turned, slowly, and smiled at Aoi for a long, long moment.

"Tonight, is it? I suppose the decision's been made—I can't get a word in edgewise, can I?"

The lioness laughed again, softly, and shook her head. Then, after a shorter pause, she did something that surprised Akane.

She leaned in and kissed him on the lips, just once.

"Not a word, Akane… not a word."

She leaned in to kiss him again. But this time, when she did, Akane did the same…

* * *

They were laying, side by side, looking out over the stark white plains of their homeland. They wouldn't be seeing such sights, ever again—but they didn't mind.

Chest still heaving, slightly, Akane let out a soft breath that made Aoi's ear twitch before he tenderly, yet teasingly, gave it a gentle nip.

"So… tonight, eh?"

"Mmm… yes, Akane," she murmured, "Tonight."

"Then," he said, "I want you to get some extra rest—no arguments, you've had a hard journey in the Black Hills. I'll retrieve the meat I've preserved, and then, we'll release one slave… and then, we'll be gone."

"Forever."

"Forever is a very long time, Akane," Aoi sighed, "But I don't mind. In fact, I like it. I want to be with you, as we are now, forever… and more," she smiled.

"If that's how you want things to be, Aoi," Akane said, "That's how they'll be. The decision is made."

"How forceful, how masculine," the lioness giggled. "I suppose I can't get a word in edgewise?"

"No, Aoi," the Prince replied. "Not a word."

* * *

"Ssh… not a word…"

The White Sands at night—silent. Dark. Ominous.

And, tonight, abuzz with activity.

Akane led Aoi away from the open-air part of where the pride slept. Silently they padded along, looking, carefully, for returning sentries or patrols—luckily, there were none.

They paused, and crouched, some two hundred yards from their parents. After giving themselves a few seconds of insurance, making sure that no one had awaken, they met eyes.

"Alright…" Akane whispered, "The meat's fifty yards from here, directly to the north—follow Alexander's Star," he murmured, referring to the star named after his grandfather, "It'll be there. Wait there, for me; I'll release the slave alone. If the worst happens and he wakes everyone up, start running—don't worry, I'll catch up, and forget about the meat. If the worst happens, we'll need to _run_.

"Otherwise, just start walking, and hand it off to me when I catch up."

"Only half of it," Aoi said silently, looking at Akane with her marvelously bright eyes, despite the darkness of their surroundings, "Only half."

"…Alright. Only half," he said, before pausing, and smiling, "And… if the worst happens, I'll have no regrets. Earlier, after you returned…"

Aoi blushed. Akane didn't explicitly praise her, but then, he had enough when they'd—

"Alright… I'm going now. Find that meat, alright, Aoi?"

The lioness nodded, getting her game face on, so to speak. This was going to happen, and she needed all her wits about her to be ready for it.

"Alright… let's go. But remember, keep it quiet."

Silently, Aoi stalked northwards. She didn't glance back to see that Akane was doing the same—she didn't hear him, either, but she did trust him.

Keeping low to the ground, just in case someone woke up, the lioness crept over that final dune, and didn't have to look around much to spot her goal. Just in front of her was the meat—perhaps forty pounds of the stuff, salted and dried and ready to be transported for weeks on end, and consumed in a pinch whenever necessary.

The young lioness wasted no time in wrapping the long shreds of meat around her neck with a deft toss of her head. Then, continuing to stay low, she started to creep along to the southwest quadrant of the White Sands—their first goal was the Eastern Jungle for a brief crossing. And then, they'd be off to the Pride Lands—possibly for good.

One minute passed, then two.

Then, Aoi began to hesitate.

Had Akane been caught? Was she, at that very moment, being tracked by her parents? Had he… gotten cold feet…?

"Psst," said a voice from surprisingly close to the lioness, making her jump, "Aoi…"

It was Akane. Expression intent and hopefully, he took his beloved's side and after a brief attempt to take the lion's share of the meat, accepted half of it.

"You set one of the slaves free?" she whispered, as they tracked shallow pugmarks behind them.

"Yes," the lion replied thinly, "It was the youngest one of them; the one who'd seen his younger brothers die before his eyes. He almost wanted to fight me, for a moment, but then he realized what I was doing. We didn't say a word to each other, but I think he knows what I want him to do. What he wants him to do."

"I hope they win," Aoi said. "Though… I don't give much for their chances. Perhaps they'll be able to force negotiation, especially if they manage to call in their friends from the Black Hills—if the leopards unite, which is unlikely… but if they do, our pr—our… _former_ pride… may be forced to rethink how it does things."

Akane replied only with a thoughtful "mmm," and Aoi got the message. Talking just now… wasn't in their best interests.

With a growing sense of foreboding, they kept walking. Had the leopard managed to release the rest of his brethren? Were they escaping together? Or… had he abandoned them and taken freedom while he had the chance?

Akane and Aoi would never know for sure.

But they were fifteen miles away when they both jumped at the sound of a terrible battle being fought, in their homeland. Near their den.

As the series of vicious yelps, growls, and roars reached the young couple's ears, they looked at one another. Their expressions held guilt, relief, shock, fear, but mostly sadness. All they could do was hope that the leopards would somehow benefit from whatever was going on… and keep walking.

* * *

Dietz had fallen into a light doze, eyes shut but head raised. He was asleep, but prepared to be alert and on his feet within seconds, if necessary. His uncle, on the other hand, had lowered his head to the ground, resting it on his paws. He'd said that nothing would dare attack the pride, not when it was all together, but Dietz assumed, probably correctly, that he was just too weak and tired to pass up a chance to catch some well-needed zs.

All at once, Dietz's eyes opened. A second later, Roderik looked up, turning his head to an approaching sound from the south.

The two leaders tensed their muscles, claws half out, prepared to fight to defend their lives and their pride. But they relaxed when they saw that it was only Kurt.

The dark furred lion was panting, a little, lime-green eyes excited and wide, even as he paused and bowed to Roderik and the lipard.

"Kurt?" the old lion said, canting his head. "Why are you here—your orders were to stay there, where you were assigned to be, until we came for you. What happened?"

"I'm sorry for disobeying your orders," Kurt said first, looking at Roderik, for a moment, before turning to Dietz. "But you have to know what I saw. There was no time to spare."

The lion then proceeded to describe, with gradually rising emotion, what he'd seen. Slowly, the rest of the pride woke and gathered around, drinking in every detail of what Kurt was describing. Some seemed scared, some seemed merely cautious, but a few looked… awed.

Dietz was one of them.

"…And that's when I decided that it was time to leave," Kurt finished, taking a second to pause, "I don't know who's winning that fight for sure… but I wouldn't give much odds for the monkeys. I wouldn't give much for them at all."

Roderik spoke up, after a moment.

"And you're sure of what you saw, Kurt—absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt?"

"Certainly," the dark lion said. "There was no mistaking it… unless I was trapped in some sort of illusion more sophisticated than I can comprehend."

Roderik nodded, slowly.

"Neither the monkeys, nor this… warrior, so to speak… neither noticed you?"

"I don't think so," Kurt said. "I never had a reason to think that they did."

"Mmm."

"So… what are we going to do about this, Uncle?" Dietz said, eventually. "We have to contact this fighter, or something. We need to find out what it is, what it's doing—"

"No, nephew," Roderik said curtly. "No, we don't. What we need to do is prepare to leave immediately—not just this part of our Jungle. This fighter you've described," he said, looking at Kurt, "I don't know what it is, exactly. But it's not natural, and it's almost _certainly_ not good. There's nothing to be gained by getting near it, and everything to be lost by remaining even within the boundaries of the same land it inhabits. You saw one of them—but there must be more than one; there must. Look, all around you—signs of monkeys, and not just a few of them—thousands."

Indeed, now that the pride looked down and into the trees, paying closer attention, they realized that it was undeniable—thousands of monkeys had, indeed, passed through this very area, not so long ago.

"Now, if there were so many monkeys but just one of these fighters, they'd overwhelm him in a heartbeat. But they're not—so, there must be more than one of these fighters… or other fighters whose natures remain unknown to us."

"It also explains why no sentients have attempted to contact us. The Eastern Jungle must be at war; these monkeys versus these fighters. The others… must either be dead, or have picked sides."

"In short, we don't know what we're getting into, and there's no reason why we would want to. Something's going on here that's far, far beyond us," Roderik said, "I don't understand it, and I don't care to understand it. All I know is that this war, or whatever it is, poses a threat to us as long as we remain here."

"So."

"We're leaving. We'll go past areas we know are well-traveled by other sentients; we'll try to find _some_thing out and we'll welcome any that wish to join us to safety—and no, we're not going back to Barren Pains, there's nothing left there. We're going to the Pride Lands."

Silence, for a moment—understandable silence. As far as anyone could see, Roderik was speculating, and blindly. The consensus was that while there was cause for concern and alarm, the best response was to lay low and to try to figure things out; not acting so harshly so soon.

It was Dietz that voiced this.

"Uncle… leave our home, immediately after arriving? Without understanding what's going on? And then—the Pride Lands. Why the Pride Lands?"

"Because they're powerful and are entrusted with knowledge that we're not," Roderik said simply. "You know the old poems and folk songs, nephew. In desperate times, when all lions must stand together, we must do it in the Pride Lands—I think this is a desperate time. A creature like that would _never_ be allowed in the Land of the Spirits… not unless the Spirits aren't as omnipotent as we think.

"Which would explain the lack of prey, the droughts, the storms; everything. Yes, Dietz," the old lion said, "it's time to go."

No one spoke, no one moved, no one _breathed_ for a second. The minatory expression on the lipard's face was as black and deep as a stormcloud. The heir imminent of Nomad leadership seemed to struggle with himself, for a moment, before managing to speak, tensely, curtly.

"Alright… _Uncle_. Time… to _go._"

Things were still tense, for a moment. The pride wondered if there was a second meaning to Dietz's words; and, to be sure, his claws were extended and he appeared ready to pounce on Roderik. The old lion stood his ground though, and merely waited, calmly, for something to happen.

Finally, Dietz turned, rapidly, and began to storm to the west, where their lands bordered the Pride Lands and Falme, as well as an outlaying Jungle territory.

Roderik nodded approvingly, and a little coldly, as his nephew passed, before following him with a jerk of his head that ordered the rest of the pride to, likewise, follow.

For the moment, Dietz and Roderik had only barely avoided fighting for control of their pride. For the moment. Dietz was on the edge of attacking his uncle, however, and it wouldn't take much at all to push him over it…

Kifo almost fell over, for a moment, swaying dangerously on his feet. He managed to clamp down, for a moment, forcing himself to stand straight up—then, he sneered.

"That's… what… you get… for fuckin'… dropping on me from… wherever… bastard…"

The demon's voice reduced t incoherent babbling as he held a tree for support, for a moment. His head throbbed, but that didn't compare to his shoulder—Kifo hadn't broken any bones for unknown reasons, but the connective tissue in his joint had been damaged. It would be a few moments at least before he could use his arm normally.

Dato was on the ground, still, weakly attempting to stand. He had little hope of doing so, however, as he was on his back and couldn't even muster the strength to turn over. So, despite his injuries, Kifo laughed, and strode over, almost falling as he did.

"Like… I said… that's… what you get…"

The demon really did fall, then, but he managed to turn it into an attack, dropping his full body weight down onto Dato, concentrating on focusing it on the leopard's ribcage.

Dato's eyes bulged as he exhaled explosively, strands of blood expelling from his maw. Kifo chuckled darkly as the leopard curled up into fetal position, or tried to, and crouched, drawing his knife.

"Heheh… gonna cut you the fuck up… heheh…"

The demon fumbled with his blade, for a second, trying hard to coax the hand of his injured arm into gripping it properly. Thinking he'd succeeded, Kifo proceeded to slash viciously, a few times. It did him little good, though; his moves were slow and awkward and his wrist was so weak that when his blade did meet fur, it did little to no real damage.

That made the demon mad.

Suddenly on his feet, neck bulging and throbbing, the demon roared, loudly, every muscle in his upper body flexing—as that happened, his shoulder suddenly healed itself. Kifo hardly took note of this, however—his attention was on Dato.

Screaming curses and threats, the demon proceeded to lift Dato up, bodily, and throw him into trees, into rocks, or just onto the ground. Kicks and punches were added too, throughout, and, in reflection, Kifo would realize that he had little to no recollection of the minutes that followed.

What the demon did know, however, was that at one point he found himself leaning over Dato's unconscious form, pummeling the leopard's face with his fists, repeatedly, as his bout of deadly, dark anger started to come to a close.

"Come on…" he snarled, hearing a grotesque, wet _snap_ as his fist impacted his opponent's cheekbone, "Come on… come on… fight… fight… fight… fight… FIGHT!"

With the demon's final word came a roar, but not from him and certainly not from Dato. Instead, it came from the side and made Kifo turn, or try to, before something impacted him _hard_, knocking him away from the downed leopard and against a nearby tree.

The demon hissed in pain, but slowly got up, eyes narrowing.

"So. You folks are tough to kill, huh."

Sonam was tending to his son, a paw on the younger leopard's forehead. When he was sure that Dato wasn't in mortal danger, he turned to Kifo.

He looked different, now. Certainly, not like a being on death's door, which he was—he looked… brighter, more powerful, more determined. In short, he looked more dangerous than he did before, and the demon put a paw on his FAL, prepared to raise it in a second, a precaution that would soon prove wise.

"Yes, we are. I don't believe, though, that you'll prove equally difficult."

There was just a second after that before Sonam moved in.

Kifo was astounded by the alacrity of the leopard's advance; he hardly had time to get his rifle up. He snapped off a single shot that impacted the ground just in front of Sonam, not making him slow for a heartbeat.

Then, the leopard was on Kifo.

The demon still had his rifle in his hands, and attempted to use it to shove Sonam off him. It didn't work, though, and Kifo was relegated to using his FAL to block the worst of Sonam's attacks. The leopard merely increased the veracity of his blows, though, so soon, Kifo was having injuries piled on him, and fast.

Desperately, Kifo switch to his pistol. Sonam was too busy striking at the demon's upper chest and face to notice, so Kifo managed to pump four or five powerful 10mm shots into the leopard's gut before Sonam jumped forward, slicing at the demon's face in the process.

He intended to attack again before Kifo could react, but Kifo was up in a heartbeat. Bleeding heavily from his injuries, the demon regardless held his pistol in an outstretched arm, running as he fired rapidly, going for a knife with his free hand.

Sonam stood his ground, for a second, before an idea occurred to him. Running off with incredible speed, he dodged bullets, even as Kifo started to, impossibly, catch up. It appeared that even in "death", so to speak, the leopard was outmatched by his opponent.

At least—that's how it appeared.

* * *

_"So… he's finished,"_ Makhlava thought, vision starting to blur from the repeated blows she had little hope of dodging at this point. _"He's finished… and he's here, now, fighting so that Dato and I can live…"_

_"…What am I doing? I can't just let myself get beat up like this! I can't make his work meaningless—I won't."_

Kishindo had just danced in with a vicious blow that might have broken the clouded leopardess's neck if it had connected. Face twisted in rage, the lioness had put every ounce of her being into the blow—so it _hurt_ when Makhlava ducked, causing her to strike a tree instead of her enemy.

No words were exchanged. Makhlava didn't even pause to think or plot out an attack—she just moved in, pressing the advantage she had gained from her enemy's temporary confusion and pain.

Makhlava went directly for Kishindo's neck, and almost got it. The lioness turned, attempting to strike her opponent with a rigid elbow, but the leopardess parried it with a casual bat with her paw.

Kishindo was shoved into the tree as Makhlava pounced on her, trying hard to get a debilitating neck bite or headlock in. The foundation upon which the engagement had been built had vitally changed; now, Makhlava fought without restraint or mercy, no quarter had been received and so, from here on out, none would be given. Kishindo was taken aback by the sudden, newfound tenacity of her opponent, and struggled to try to turn over, to try to dislodge the sharp, deadly claws from her rapidly tenderizing back.

Eventually, the lioness's strength won out over Makhlava's surprisingly rapid series of blows. But there was no lull in the fight; the second the clouded leopardess got a grip on the ground, she moved in again. Kishindo didn't even have time to turn around, fully.

Darkness made the battling felines unearthly shadows, silhouettes in the night. To those of us without the gift of night vision, the most that might be seen were the glint of a claw or tooth here, or the spray of blood and gore there. The sounds, though, were what made the fight terrifying—not a second passed without a threatening growl or grunt of pain; it was a wonder that no other leopards had heard and come to investigate—this, the Lion Sheikh supposes, is what comes from a lack of communal cohesion.

Not that Makhlava or Sonam anticipated any help. They weren't attempting to hold off their enemies; their intentions were fatal. Dato was still unconscious or worse—hopefully unconscious—and Makhlava was losing blood fast.

Whereas Kishindo, though injured, wasn't mortally injured. The lioness was far bigger than her opponent, and though her fur wasn't as thick and protective, a lifetime of combat and conflict and hardship and hate had toughened her—she hardly acknowledge the dozen or so deep cuts and bites that now adorned her form.

Things were now as they had been before. The two cats were exchanging paw and claw strikes, rapidly. Makhlava had the advantage here, but you wouldn't know from watching—Kishindo had adapted her fighting style and her natural advantages, and was actually holding off the leopardess's advances quite well.

They weren't deadlocked, however—far from it. The lioness might be blocking three or four out of five blows launched at her, but one or two were still coming through. And the pace of the conflict meant that every minute or so, Kishindo would take at least—at _least_ a dozen hits. If things kept up like this, she'd slowly be pummeled into exhaustion.

Not good.

Kishindo, though, suddenly realized—she had an advantage. Or, she _could _have an advantage, if only—

Settling on her decision, the lioness turned and fled. Makhlava didn't register surprise for a heartbeat, and tore after her opponent. The leopardess maintained her equanimity, hardly thinking more than one or two steps into the future—she focused on beating Kishindo in the present, in the split-second here and now—and so, when she finally realized what the lioness was doing, she was taken off guard.

The few blows Makhlava had lain on Kishindo's hindquarters and tail meant nothing, now. The leopardess should have moved to head her opponent off, or stop her, or go for her hamstrings or something, instead of hoping to lay on a gradually increasing series of wounds that would, eventually, bring the lioness down.

Because now, Kishindo was within yards of Dato.

"No! Bitch!" Makhlava yelled, but the lioness just laughed and attempted to dive onto the downed leopard.

In desperation, the leopardess tackled her opponent, jumping as hard and fast as she could. Kishindo had reached out, and, grinning maliciously, got a paw on Dato, but that was all. The next second, the lioness had had her wind knocked out by Makhlava's assault. Now, the leopardess had wrapped her forelegs around Kishindo's midsection, and was biting, hard, gnawing on the lioness's ribs.

They were thrown past Dato, though; the leopard was left mostly unharmed, save for a single, triangular cut across his eyelid. Landing in a heap, the two females continued to battle it out.

Kishindo struck hard at Makhlava's face and head, repeatedly, and attempted to kick her enemy, too. The leopardess used her legs to pin the lioness's, though, mostly, so it was now a battle of attrition now, in a fashion. Would Makhlava gain the upper hand by breaking through Kishindo's underbelly? Or would Kishindo win out by battering the leopardess into unconsciousness?

* * *

One of Kifo's largest flaws as a villain—that is, combatant—is that he was almost painfully predictable. He was like a moth to flame, when enticed with the possibility of spilling some blood.

Sonam realized this.

"C'mon, fucker! What are you running for; you're not getting away!"

They were moving blazingly fast. Sonam was leading Kifo by a dozen or so yards; moving so quickly that he made rather large branches on the Black Hills' trees quake as his wake washed over them.

At first, the demon had held his rifle up, unloading round after round towards his enemy. It was useless, though; Kifo wasn't a great shot on the move, and Sonam was moving _everywhere_. He hardly ran ten yards without changing direction, if slightly; he took to the treetops and sprang off of trunks every chance he got; and, at speeds like this, the demon experienced a significant increase in aerodynamics and therefore maximum speed when he lowered his gun.

All at once, though, Kifo had to stop. They'd reached a hill; crumbling rock and bush made it impossible for the demon to follow with a hope of catching up to the leopard.

Roaring in frustration, the demon dropped to a knee and brought his rifle up. Sonam was moving all over the place, still, bouncing from behind boulder to boulder, flying from outcropping to outcropping, giving Kifo far too little time to snap off meaningful shots. At most, the demon was firing at blurs; fleeting glances of the leopard's coat or tail—they weren't big enough targets for him to hope to get a hit.

Quickly, Kifo gave up the hope of dropping his enemy through precision. So, instead, he switched to sheer firepower.

The demon fired bursts, short bursts, but in rapid succession. Rocks were chipped into pebbles in powder due to his mostly fruitless attempts—he saw exactly one explosion of blood that was, hopefully, the leopard; not some stupid bystander or a decoy of some sort.

Sonam had moved out of sight, though. Roaring again, Kifo pressed the trigger of his gun and held it, vision reddening as his neck bulged, saliva spraying from his maw. He was tired and he was hurt and he was hungry and he was angry—_he wanted blood!_

He didn't know why he paused, suddenly. Maybe it was because the loud cracks of rounds being fired from his rifle had been replaced with a series of metallic clicks; his magazine had emptied. It couldn't have been because he noticed anything different—maybe it was due to some instinct. Maybe he intended to go up and fight Sonam at close range, practicality be damned.

Or maybe it was just chance.

Whatever it was, though, it made Kifo look at the hill itself, sniffing, carefully, air flowing rapidly through his nostrils. For some reason, he suddenly felt quite insecure, quite unsafe—what was wrong?

The demon turned, changing magazines, rifle at his hip. Had more leopards arrived on the scene to help their brethren? What was happening?

A sound, though, on a frequency so low that he didn't hear it so much as he felt it, made Kifo turn again, looking at the hill.

_"Just a fuckin' second—I swear to G… oh, shit…"_

The scene before his eyes was, actually, pretty much the same. But Kifo was gifted with a mind that allowed him to recall even infinitesimal details quite well—he noticed that one of the huge rocks that formed the hill, a slab of sediment that provided actual structure for the formation… had _moved_.

"Bastard… how did he do it?" Kifo murmured as, slowly, he started to back away, knowing that if he moved too much, too quick, he might unleash a rockslide that would not only bury and pulverize him, but would obliterate the forest for hundreds of yards behind him—not that he cared. But it was a hazard that he had little hope of surviving.

The demon raised his knees high, hoping to step over smaller rocks, so that he wouldn't be tripped up. Hopefully, he wouldn't run into any trees, either, as he continued to carefully pick his way backwards…

As it turned out, he didn't slip on a loose boulder, and he didn't walk into a tree. Rather, his heel caught on an raised sheet of rock, common to hilly areas of this land. Trying to compensate suddenly, eyes growing wide, the demon reached out with an arm to try to grab something to keep himself upright—too late.

The back of his head smashed into a pointed, oval piece of rock, but that wasn't the worst of it. Reflexively, not just his free hand but his rifle hand had tightened its grip, so that he sprayed perhaps five rounds into the sky—this, folks, is why you keep your finger _off_ the trigger of a gun you don't want to shoot.

Hissing on the ground in pain, for a moment, the demon suddenly froze—his vision had blackened; had he set off the avalanche of rock and sediment and died?

Slowly, though, he found himself looking at the sky.

Then, the demon sat up, and laughed.

The mountainside hadn't budged.

"I'm getting paranoid," he said to himself, picking himself up without too much pain. "I—"

Another crack, another shift.

And this one didn't end in mere silence and tension.

Thousands of tons of rock had been destabilized, and, for a second, it looked like they might just roll a few yards and stop. But the conversion of energy set off a chain of events that broke off the entire side of the hill, sending house-sized boulders barreling towards Kifo.

Perhaps the demon said something then, but he certainly didn't hear it over the thunderous, menacing rumble that approached. He didn't much pay attention to his mouth, either; he focused on his feet. Everything he'd ever learned or experienced just then told him exactly one thing: _run_.

Kifo was _pretty_ sure he screamed after that, but who wouldn't? Sure, he was a fighter by nature, but he was no Indiana Jones—he was used to running _towards_ enemies, not away from threats so insurmountable that confronting them was insanity.

The demon had a few seconds headstart, but that was all, and it hardly mattered. He didn't even consider climbing—trees could be, and were, brought down by the dozens and dozens of rocks.

Everything that the slide met was flattened. Trees, foliage, smaller hills, and all the creatures that lived in them. Such a ruthless attack could hardly have been foreseen—no one would ever have imagined that Sonam was capable of unleashing such destruction on his homeland.

But then, the leopard was already finished. He had nothing left to lose but his family, so he felt little regret for opening the gates of Hell on Kifo.

The leopard was left out in the open after he triggered the slide, and watched Kifo as long as he could. Quickly, though, the demon disappeared among, and ostensibly beneath, the slurry of boulders.

Finally, the slide was starting to die down. Watching dust settle, Sonam's eyes narrowed. His enemy hadn't—_couldn't_ have survived such a pounding… right? That was impossible… …right?

He suddenly felt a need to confirm the kill before going off to help his wife.

The slide had cut a vast swath through the Hills; everything had been knocked down and covered with rocks. Sonam picked his way over them carefully, knowing that they were prone to shifting, and if he fell, he could be squashed or trapped, incapable of taking down the lioness with Makhlava.

_"I don't see him,"_ the leopard thought. He used his nose to try to find where Kifo had fallen, but it was useless—the demon's scent had been spread all around and covered by the slide.

"You're dead, right?" Sonam said out loud, ears swiveling from side to side, intent on picking up any sound, even the slightest. There was nothing, though—nothing but for the distant sounds of combat, of Makhlava and Kishindo's fight.

"You're dead," the leopard said after another moment of searching. "There's no way that you survived that. None. At all. I'm going to help my wife, now," Sonam said, turning, "Farewell, demon… and good riddance."

The leopard walked one yard. Then two.

Then stopped.

And looked down.

"I…"

"Dead… am I?"

A paw had caught hold of Sonam's ankle, reaching up from beneath hundreds of crushing pounds of dead weight.

Kifo's paw.

The leopard slashed, viciously, at the demon's appendage, attempting to get free. Three deep, jagged lines appeared across Kifo's fingers. Chunks of flesh were removed, baring his bone—but still he held.

And started to crush.

Sonam hissed in agony, and continued to slash, to slice. He could feel his flesh being turned into little more than mush, and knew that it wouldn't be long before his bones failed…

But still, Kifo kept crushing. Sonam fell, adjusting his position, and bit down on the demon's wrist. He felt his claws cleave their way through flesh and cartilage, but still, the demon wouldn't let go.

The leopard heard a wet, meaty _crack_ and then, a mind-numbing bolt of pain shook him to his core. His paw dangled uselessly at his side, more or less separated from the rest of his body by a grievous compound fracture. Sonam tried to stand to fight or run, but Kifo had already mostly freed himself from the rocks.

The demon had had to displace and climb through at least a ton of the sediments; his muscles bulged from the effort. For a moment, he stood at the surface, panting, muscles bulging from the exertion—it was good to be back.

Then, turning to the leopard, who had somehow managed to get to his feet, Kifo grinned.

"I gotta hand it to you," he said, examining his FAL—it had been severely damaged from the rockslide, but even as the demon spoke, it began to repair itself, "I would never, ever have figured you coulda done something like that. I still don't even have a clue—how'd you do it? It's got me beat?"

"It's… because of my condition," the leopard said, voice unsteady from pain. "I used my life-force itself to set off that slide."

"Aw, how sweet," Kifo sneered. "So I guess you've only got a couple minutes left as it is, huh?"

Sonam nodded. He tried to set his paw on the ground, to at least give the illusion that he could fight, but the slightest touch almost paralyzed him from agony.

"But I bet you're not gonna let me pass without a problem, huh? After all… your bitch is still alive, and your boy is too… maybe."

Sonam shook his head.

"Though," he said, smiling despite his situation, forcing himself to set his paw on the ground, grinding his teeth to ignore the pain, "I wouldn't be too concerned about _my_ bitch. Your bitch… do you really think she can take on Makhlava? My wife is a fighter," Sonam murmured. "That old hag you go around with doesn't stand a chance."

"Is that _so_?" Kifo growled, racking the bolt of his rifle threateningly. "I—"

"Yes, it is so," Sonam said, grinning. He was doomed, and had been since he'd taken that single, lethal shot—but who cared? Any minute that he spent delaying Kifo, any minute that he spent protecting his wife and child was a worthwhile minute. "I'm surprised that a woman that old can still walk—"

"Shut up," Kifo said, but Sonam just kept speaking.

"And what about her will; has she got that in order? Not that I think she's got much net worth, but still. Money's money, right; and she _can't_ have any kids, not with a face like that—"

"_Actually_," Kifo sneered. "She has a son. Bastard betrayed her, but she doesn't care anymore. She's got me, see?"

"I see. I see," Sonam said, nodding in a mock-up of sympathy. "So, ahm, I guess she's your adoptive mother, eh? For how many more years will you stay with her? I could never stick around my mother for so long. Free men need more space and freedom than that, you see."

"The fuck do you know about freedom?" the demon laughed, "Dude, you're fuckin' chained down by your family! I mean, sheeeeyit… I go when I want, where I want, how I want, why I want—you, on the other hand—"

"I don't think you understand how things work here, in the Black Hills," Sonam said, rolling his eyes, "Youngsters these days; so presumptuous, so patently _stupid_… Anyway," the leopard continued, "I have a family, yes. But we don't live together—we meet at our leisure, when it suits us, and that's all. There's no constraints, little commitment but that which is self-imposed—I'm living the life, boy. You could take a lesson from me."

"I probably could. I don't know how to lose fights—and The Game," Kifo snarled, raising his rifle.

"Bastard," Sonam said in wonder, before leaping to the side, dodging a sudden volley of bullets that sliced through the space he'd inhabited just a second before.

The leopard tried to circle, but the terrain was too tough, and his broken paw didn't help any. He tripped and tried to roll, but ended up jamming his shoulder against a pointed rock. Flinching in pain, he managed to recover and spring at Kifo, whose rifle had hit a failure to eject, forcing the demon to wrestle with the bolt.

The tackle was sloppy and inefficient, and didn't bring Kifo to the ground. At the last second, the demon planted his feet and hunched his shoulders up. When Sonam struck him, he just shoved forward, in a way, canceling out the leopard's kinetic energy with a high-impulse push. The leopard fell down to the ground and would have landed just fine, if Kifo hadn't raised his knee just then.

Sonam's eyes bulged as the demon's armored joint pummeled into his solar plexus. Feeling himself seize up, the leopard wheezed, gasping for breath, clutching at his chest. Kifo grinned—he'd gotten himself a great advantage, and intended to use it to finish the fight.

The demon picked his enemy up, bodily, just as he'd done with Dato, not so long ago. Lifting him over his head, Kifo bent his knees, grunting from the exertion, then jumped and threw the leopard not just far, but high into the air.

Sonam scrambled, or tried to, as he finally regained control of his limbs halfway through his flight. But the demon unslung his rifle, sighted, and started to fire at the leopard's falling form.

He took a few hits but managed to dodge some, watching the muzzle of Kifo's FAL and projecting, with a surprising degree of accuracy, where bullets would go, and what he'd have to do to avoid them. It didn't gain him much, though; he was merely trading bullet damage for fall damage.

The leopard hit the ground with a sickening crunch—he'd landed on his side, shattering half his ribs. His paw was now completely useless, the foreleg to which it was attached broken in another two places—it was limp, totally, and beyond useless. It was just dead weight.

Savagely, Sonam roared, and dashed towards his enemy, zigzagging. Kifo sprayed a few rounds downrange, missed them all, then forced himself to be patient—it was hard. But by waiting, he gave himself a perfect shot; the leopard's shoulder danced directly in his sights—

The shot was perfect, final, finishing. It struck Sonam like a sledgehammer, its force flipping him to his back, blood spraying, dying the rocks and flattened plants red. With both of his forelegs out, the leopard was panting, bleeding heavily, internally and externally—but still, he managed to crawl forward, snarling viciously, spittle and blood flowing from his lips. He wasn't going to give up.

Frowning, the demon looked at his enemy. Spat. Reloaded his rifle… then started to walk, leaving Sonam behind.

"Wh—NO! COME BACK HERE!" the leopard yelled, "COME BACK, BASTARD! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

"No thanks, bud," Kifo said, casually striding onwards, scarcely turning his head to speak over his shoulder. "I've got more important things to do. See you around, Sonam… or not…"

"No… no… no…" he practically whimpered, struggling to get to his feet, completely without success, "Stop… fight me, hurt me… not Dato… not… Makhlava…"

It was a wonder, it really was, that Sonam had lasted so long. But, slowly, as Kifo continued to walk, the light started to vanish from the leopard's eyes. His efforts soon became twitches, before vanishing altogether.

The leopard died. The demon kept walking.

* * *

Makhlava was making progress, but it wasn't much. Worse, she could feel her vision starting to blur, dim, as the lioness's repeated blows rattled her brain.

Then, though, she made an advance—a large strip of flesh and fur was stripped from the lioness's underbelly, courtesy of Mahlava. Kishindo hissed in agony as the leopardess dove towards her exposed internals, but managed to cope.

The lioness turned, hiding her gaping injury from her enemy. It was a desperate play for time, but it worked—Makhlava couldn't get to the single advantage she had, and, in this new position, Kishindo found that she had one leg free, and started to use it to regain her upper hand.

The wrestling match came to a sudden and unexpected end when a third combatant entered the fray.

And it wasn't Kifo.

Dato rushed in and struck Kishindo in the ear, the energy of his paw coupled with his relatively high speed to land a blow that took the lioness's hearing, for a moment. The lioness was knocked to her side, downed, for a moment, giving the young leopard time to tend to his mother.

No words were exchanged. He merely helped her up, looked over her injuries, wincing a little, but realizing that none were entirely debilitating, and turned back to the lioness. Kishindo was already on her feet.

"Well, this is certainly a treat," the lioness said sweetly, eyes glinting with malice as she backed up—the mother-son duo had split up, moving to attack her from two fronts with a rough pincer maneuver. "I've never killed a mother and son in the same battle, I think."

"And you never will," Dato retorted, "That bodyguard of yours—he's gone. My father wiped him off this Earth, without a doubt. Soon," the leopard said, smiling just a little, "you'll have to take him on, as well. Do you really think you can do that? Face an entire family of Black Hills clouded leopards, who, unlike you, have the blessings and favor of the Spirits?"

"Yes," Kishindo seethed. "Blessings and favor of the Spirits, pah… you've already seen how much that's done for you. Supposing, for a moment, that your pathetic father managed to kill Kifo—he still only has hours left to live. And you both have injuries that will never, ever completely heal, I fear," she said dramatically, giving the pair a sympathetic look. "Perhaps it's not me that should consider giving up and begging for mercy."

"We'll never give up, and we'll _never_ beg for mercy," Makhlava said softly. "NEVER, do you hear me, whore? Never."

"Ooh, what a sharp, sharp tongue you have. I'm hurt," the lioness rolled her eyes for _just_ a second, so that the duo wouldn't interpret that as a weak point and move in. "Sticks and stones, girl. Sticks and stones."

Kishindo was still backing up, panning her gaze from Dato to his mother. The leopards crept in together, slowly, approaching the lioness gradually—soon, the distance between them would close, and the fight would begin again. But there was a glint in Kishindo's eye besides the malice there that never left—she was planning something and they knew it. The question was—what on Earth was she up to?

Maintaining situational awareness, the leopards continued to move in. Communicating with each another nonverbally, using subtle, slight paw signals and motions, they started to spread apart, intending to attack the lioness from both sides.

They were playing into her paws.

But, of course, they didn't know it.

Kishindo felt her tail hit a tree, and stopped moving. She allowed the leopards to flank her entirely, though—Makhlava was on the right and Dato was on the left; she made note of that.

This, however, was a delicate situation for the lioness. She couldn't keep her eyes _just_ on one leopard, or the other would dash in too quickly and too quietly for her to react. On the other hand, there were also dangers associated with looking back and forth; if the leopards detected any rhythm in her doing so, they would exploit it. And they were going to come in only seconds, anyway.

It was a risk. A big risk.

But… it paid off.

Both leopards rushed in at the same time, anticipating that Kishindo would either run forwards or jump straight up. The lioness did neither, though, and confused both Black Hills natives by running—directly at Dato.

Of course, the clouded leopard was prepared to meet his foe, and jumped a little early, seeing the lioness bob up to meet him in midair.

Folly.

It was a feint, and it worked. Kishindo suddenly dropped down, sliding, turning onto her back. Dato flew directly over her, trying to claw at the lioness, but his limbs weren't nearly as long as hers. Kishindo could, and did reach him—even as he continued to slide, streaking mud across her back, she grabbed Dato and threw him.

Makhlava, of course, was still coming. Her son was thrown off, however, by the lioness's unexpected shove, and flailed in midair, losing control rapidly. The clouded leopardess's eyes widened and she tried to dodge, but she'd been moving too fast, he'd been running too recklessly, and the lioness had thrown him too far.

They hit _hard_; a collision compounded by extended, knifelike claws. Both leopards were dazed, and Kishindo took only seconds to get to her feet and change the direction of her motion, digging her paws into the Black Hills' yielding topsoil to move forward.

Dato and Makhlava struggled to break apart from one another, and managed to do so just before Kishindo was on them. The lioness leaped into the air and pounced on Dato, working on pinning the leopard—she was distracted, though, as Makhlava fought back, slashing at her shoulder, moving in for a bite.

Kishindo rolled and tried to elbow the leopardess, simultaneously keeping a decent grip on Dato. It didn't work well, though; Makhlava dodged the hasty blow and went for the lioness's brachial artery. Dato managed to gain some leverage, and, just before they hit ground, worked on getting a pin on Kishindo.

From this position, there really were few options for the lioness. The leopards had both of her forelegs pinned pretty good, and she could hardly kick or bite them. Fatigue and blood loss from her injuries were starting to set in, making it almost impossible for her to flail her way free, and the duo now knew better than to ignore her legs—she tried to kick at them, several times, but they parried and blocked and shrugged off her blows.

All at once, though, the rules of the game changed, again—another combatant entered.

And this time, it was Kifo.

The demon fired a few rounds into the air, announcing his arrival. Stepping into view, looking around wildly, he ignored the wrestling trio, for a moment, and raised a finger into the air, after licking it.

A moment passed.

Then, without warning, the brawl restarted in full force.

First, Kifo forced the leopards to scatter by unleashing a barrage of rounds at them. Kishindo curled up a little, allowing the stream of lead to fly _just_ next to her head, and then moved the instant her compatriot ceased fire.

Dato and Makhlava had made off in opposite directions, breaking the fray into two separate but related fights. After glancing at one another for a brief second, Kishindo pursued the leopardess; Kifo pursued Dato.

Both leopards were now seriously considering flat out retreat—the problem, though, was that they'd split up too soon, too quickly; and were now too far apart to communicate their intentions to one another. Now, each was pinned in the fight by the possibility that, no matter what, the other might not give up.

Both Kifo and Kishindo picked up on this, and the occasional manner in which each of their quarries would try to turn, try to shift their engagements back into convergence, they'd block it with every ounce of effort they had. Dato and Makhlava would _not_ be allowed within a hundred yards of each another… ever again.

Dato was the first to realize that Kifo wasn't going to let him get back to his lone teammate. He also realized that his best chance at beating the demon wasn't at medium or long range, where a swarm of bullets could chop him apart in a second—it was at close range.

Skidding to a halt before, surprisingly, jumping into, then springing off a tree, the leopard turned 180° within a half second.

But Kifo was waiting for him.

Now, just then, the demon could have _finished_ his opponent in any number of ways. He could have dropped to a knee and dispatched Dato with a CNS disconnect shot, in which a single bullet would be fired through the leopard's upper lip and go on to sever his brain stem, essentially turning off his nervous system in a heartbeat. Or, he could have cut the leopard's head off with a wild slash of his knife; or, he could have punched Dato with the muzzle of his rifle, stunning him, before finishing him at his leisure.

He did none of these things, though.

For reasons unknown to the demon, he tensed his legs, getting into the perfect position, predicting Dato's path flawlessly—and _headbutted_ his enemy, feeling a thrill which he didn't quite understand as he did so.

Of course, the leopard went down, gasping, clutching at the base of his neck. Kifo had pulverized the bone there, causing severe internal trauma—Dato struggled to get to his feet, but it was useless. Useless.

For a second, the demon snickered, watching his fallen enemy writhe on the ground. He considered a great many things, then; the last of which involved quick, relatively painless endings for Dato's story. Then, though, his mind shifted…

"Kishindo…"

"Damn. Guess I oughta go help her—but don't worry, little fellow. I'll be back… real soon." Kifo then knelt next to the leopard, unfurling a length of rope. Due to his experience in the BSA… that is, due to having tied his shoes several times throughout his life, the demon was able to tightly constrain the leopard's movements, ignoring the pathetic batting motions his quarry made.

He just kept walking.

* * *

Kishindo wasn't catching up anytime soon, that was for certain. However, it was equally certain that the lioness wasn't given up anytime soon, either. Makhlava couldn't get back to her son, and every moment she kept sprinting was taking her _away_ from him.

Grinning maliciously, the lioness dug her claws into the ground, intent on catching her prey. She was getting close, too; just a few more feet, a few more inches, and she'd be on her—

The chase came to a halt, though, when Makhlava jumped, turned, and flipped through the air, once, landing in a clean, low fighting stance. Growling viciously, the leopardess held her ground, allowing Kishindo to come to her, for once.

"Finally," Kishindo said, savoring the emotion, the feeling of preparing to rip her opponent limb from limb, _"Finally_. You're really going to fight now—I hope. Don't disappoint me—alright?"

It was a rhetorical question to which the lioness expected no answer. But Makhlava gave one regardless.

"Alright."

The leopardess then did something that her opponent didn't foresee. She attacked, but not in the usual way; not with her claws or jaws or body mass. Instead, she ran in but planted her forelegs, suddenly, forcing Kishindo to dodge a blow that wasn't coming, spun, and slammed both of her hindpaws into the lioness's shoulder.

Kishindo was jolted off course and almost fell, but managed to right herself and avoid a bite aimed at the back of her neck. Makhlava still had the upper hand, though… for a moment.

She took only two bullets, but those two bullets carried with them such trauma that they almost dropped the leopard on the spot. They smashed through her lower ribs, missing her heart, and lungs; but taking out important digestive organs. Essentially, the wounds she sustained, just then, were mortal.

But she kept fighting.

Growling, shaking off the pain, the leopardess wrapped her foreleg under Kishindo's, then, around the lioness's neck, in a sort of feline half-nelson. Normally, the lioness would have shaken herself out of such a hold, but, just then, she couldn't—apparently, Makhlava was already starting to "die", so, the potential for exacting revenge held by all clouded leopards was starting to be realized.

Kishindo resisted, hard, both attempting to break the lock as well as trying to stop herself from being dragged, used as a shield from more support from Kifo. But Makhlava was too strong.

"You killed my husband? My son?" the leopardess asked, snarling, still dragging Kishindo along like a ragdoll, making sure that she wasn't giving Kifo a clear shot by jostling her hostage, and avoiding baring her head or limbs.

"Got it," the demon replied, thinly. His rifle was raised and he peered down the sights, tense—his finger twitched, a few times, ready to drop his enemy, but at the last second, right before he planned to fire, Makhlava would reposition. Even as he advanced, she moved backwards, still holding Kishindo in an impressively tight grip.

"And you too," Kifo added, noting the way the leopardess's muscles and veins bulged, supernaturally, spiked with extra energy, "How long do you think you'll last?" The demon now looked into Kishindo's eyes, carefully; but didn't aim at her. This wasn't going to be easy to pull off…

"A few hours; no more. But don't worry—I'll kill her. And then, I'll kill you," Makhlava snarled.

"I'm sure."

A second passed.

Then another.

Then, Kishindo's eyes flashed.

The lioness contorted her body, suddenly, with every ounce of effort she had, which wasn't much—cut off from air by her enemy's King Kong-like grip, her lungs were in dire need of oxygen. Makhlava, on the other hand, was angry and in control and had the advantage of adrenaline and the defensive measure built into her genes by generations of violence and warfare. She reacted within a second, head blurring, as she moved to duck, giving herself cover once more—

Kifo fired only one shot.

But it did the trick.

The slug clipped Makhlava in the top of the head. It didn't penetrate her skull. Bouncing off, it merely cracked it, cleaving a path of blood and fur out of the leopardess's flesh. It stopped her in her tracks, though, for a moment; giving Kishindo time to escape her grasp and dash, gasping for air, to Kifo's side.

Makhlava struggled, for a moment, to overcome the near-fatal shot—it had given her a rather serious concussion, and she couldn't see very well at all—her enemies were mere blobs against the dark background of the Black Hills.

But she kept fighting.

Snarling, swaying on her feet, a little, the leopardess rushed forward with stunning speed.

Kifo, though, was ready.

This time, he didn't fire a single shot. He fired a series of bursts, rapidly. The first salvo took out Makhlava's shoulder. But she kept fighting. The second and third riddled her torso and back with nickel-sized holes. But she kept fighting. The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh took out Makhlava's spine and filled her lungs with rapidly coagulating blood.

She finally stopped moving.

Rather dispassionately, Kifo stepped forward, kicked his enemy so that she was on the ground, back down, barely twitched, probably unconscious. He held the muzzle of his rifle to her head, and didn't flinch as he pulled the trigger.

Suddenly, things were silent.

Though, Kifo could feel himself strengthened and emboldened by his victory. He was injured, and it would take him hours to heal—after that, he was sure, the full results of the battle would set in.

He looked forward to it.

But there was still a loose end to tie up—and, potentially, a way to test the new power he could already feel bubbling up inside of him.

"You good to go, Kishindo?" he asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the leopardess, after nudging her to make sure that she really was down for the count. Now, as he checked on his mentor's condition, he saw that she'd need some time—a few days, at least—to heal. She was exhausted, sweaty, bloody; and, now that the adrenaline from the fight was wearing off, rather dazed and unfocused, as well.

"Go where, Kifo?" the lioness asked, canting her head up at the demon, "I was actually thinking that it might be nice to go to sleep, right now… right here, even."

"Just a few minutes," he said, feeling a tinge of guilt, "That's all I want. It's sort of a big deal, see… the other one, Dato, or whatever… he's still alive."

_That_ certainly woke her up.

"What?!" the lioness exclaimed, eyes widening and claws extending as she looked around, "Why did you let him—supposing he gives us away? We have to track him right now!"

"Don't worry, don't worry," the demon said, before smiling, black lips upturning to bear his fangs, "He's not going anywhere. At least—not until we want him to."

* * *

"It's a difficult situation, Doctor—there are complications, allergies, heart murmurs, carcinogens, even trans fats involved. But we can do this," he breathed, "I know we can."

"Sometimes, boy, you don't make any sense at all," Kishindo replied, "What is a trans fat?"

"I don't exactly know," Kifo replied. "I think it has something to do with capitalism, or something. I'm not sure."

"Ah. What's capitalism?"

"…Let's try and focus, huh, Kishindo?"

Dato had been gagged and bound more securely since the lioness and Kifo had returned. They'd come to find the leopard attempting to break free by biting at his knots; it had done little good, fortunately.

Kishindo was holding the leopard down, physical, feeling somewhat disgusted for doing so. Dato glared up at her, so she spat on his nose, and looked away. To her, a defeated, conquered enemy deserved neither mercy nor pity.

Looking to her right, feeling a ripple of terror roll through her, the lioness looked at Kifo—he was slowly pressing his hands together, as if compressing something intangible, invisible.

"What are you doing?" the lioness asked, genuinely curious, "Hey—you're not going to make him explode, are you? I'm too close!"

"Nah, nah, Kishindo, nothing like that. Just… hold still."

Kifo's paws burned black, as if covered and surrounded by ash and soot. As he approached, Dato started to struggle—it did no good, of course, even as the demon continued to maliciously, inexorably bore down on him.

Now, he was only inches away. The leopard's eyes darted, rapidly, as he still persisted to try to get away, but it was no good…

* * *

"Ssh, ssh… wait… get down."

Without reluctance, the pride obeyed. The exception, of course, was Dietz—but, after a second of fuming, he, too, took cover, peering through the trees.

_"I wonder what the old fart's seen. The senile old fool—it can't be important_," the lipard thought to himself, _"Perhaps—"_

"Kurt… come here, please," the long-furred lion whispered.

Silently, Kurt complied, crawling past Dietz with an apologetic look. He took position next to his leader and canted his head.

"Tell me… is what you saw… does it look anything like those?"

Dietz blinked. And then, he became aware that he was practically lying in a pile of ejected brass…

"Oh Spirits… without a doubt, Roderik. I had no idea that there were so many…"

_"Fuck it. Caution and decorum be damned; I have to see this."_

Dietz got up, silently, and slid into position next to his uncle. Ignoring the way the old lion's eyes narrowed, he looked far, far into the distance, into a clearing almost hidden from view by the thickness of the Eastern Jungle.

All five Black Army fighters were preparing to rest—unlike Kifo, they had creature needs, and sleep was one of them. In a way, it seemed, their Master treated them well; apart from the machineguns welded into their hands, they disarmed and climbed into hammocks, upraised from the ground—they were still susceptible to bites and stings from insects and worse.

"So… they're directly in our way, Uncle. What shall we do?" Dietz murmured.

"Move around them, of course," Roderik replied, softly. "Or, rather—we three, and Sylvester, will remain in place, here, in case they wake—the rest will peel off and move at least a mile away before we continue."

"This is cowardice!" Dietz said sharply, hardly whispering. Roderik looked at him, but Kurt kept his eyes on the Black Army. "Uncle, they're over five hundred yards away! We don't need to circle around farther! I—"

"Enough," Roderik murmured. "We will do… as I say. If you want to take any shortcuts, you're free to do so, nephew—_after_ we're all far, far away."

Now, Dietz started to growl.

"Fool," he hissed. "Not only are we not taking an appropriate risk and contacting this great power."

"Dietz…"

"We're circumventing it entirely—cowering as if we're not the lords of this land."

"Dietz…"

"How can a lion without guts exist, much less _lead_? It's malarchy."

"Dietz…!"

"_What_, Kurt?" the lipard spat, turning viciously towards his friend before pausing, face falling—he hadn't realized how loudly he'd been speaking.

"I think they heard you…"

The Black Army, indeed, had stood. Without a word between them, they got back to back, in a hunting circle. No hand motions were required; nothing—they started to spread out and move, vaguely in the Nomads' general direction.

"We'll deal with this treachery later," Roderik breathed, not taking his eyes off the former humans as he started to back up, silently, "For now, the safety of the pride is our first concern. We need to get everyone away from these things, as far and fast as possible—don't argue, Dietz. Even you must admit that this is _not_ the first impression you want to make."

The lipard didn't respond. He did, though, seem to comply, starting to back away, invisible, hopefully, to the Black Army.

Something happened then, however, that no one could have forseen.

The Black Army was attacked, but not by the White Army, nor the Eastern Jungle anarchists, nor the Nomads.

They were attacked by a clouded leopard… that, until quite recently, had gone by the name of Dato.

* * *

The Lion King: My Name

Chapter 10.5: Kifo Runs for President

* * *

(I don't mean to offend anyone by this. Really.)

* * *

"It's time."

Standing tall and proud at eight feet tall, Kifo was well dressed, at the moment—a suit, pin-striped, stylish sunglasses, the works. He'd even gone so far as to comb his hair, for once, and even brush his teeth.

"Hold still, just a moment," Kishindo said, approaching. "Your tie…"

The lioness adjusted it, straightening his jacket. Smirking to herself as she looked at the imposing, powerful figure in front of her, she couldn't help but feel that they had this election in the bag.

"Thank you, future Vice President," the demon grinned. "Now… it's time."

One minute, Kifo was backstage.

The next, he was there, right there, standing at a podium in front of seas of people as far as even his telescopic eyes could see.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, but the demon took it in stride. His smile was slight, humble, and in acknowledgement of the attention, he merely raised a hand in greeting—they cheered even louder at that.

The second he adjusted his microphone, though, the silence was sudden, instant, and _absolute_. There were no straggling cries, no late applause, nothing—everyone was focused on the demon, and what he had to say.

"Today we rise again as one nation, in the face of betrayal and corruption… We all trusted this man to deliver our great nation into a new era of prosperity, but, like our monarchy before the Revolution, he has been colluding with the West with only self interest at heart.

"Collusion breeds slavery!... and we shall never be enslaved. The time has come to show our true strength. They underestimate our resolve... Let us show that we do not fear them. As one people we shall free our brethren from the yoke of foreign oppression! …Our armies are strong, and our cause is just. As I speak—our armies are nearing their objectives, by which we will restore the independence of a once great nation. Our noble crusade has begun.

"…Just as they lay waste to our country, we will lay waste to theirs. This is how it begins."

Silence lingered for a moment. Then, men in uniform started to become visible in the crowds, passing out weapons—Kalashnikovs, machetes, pistols, RPGs, grenades, aluminum bats… this army didn't seem modern. But even as Kifo watched, he paused, glancing down at a PDA on his belt—already, the Air Force and Navy were converging on the capital.

_"It's time."_

The demon raised his own weapon, his signature gold-plated FAL, aiming it into the clear, purplish sky, hand on the grip. It was a heavy rifle, but Kifo handled it like it weighed nothing.

Then…

"Umshini wami."

The crowd screamed in anticipation and vigor, raising their own weapons in response.

"Mshini wami."

Now, they started to sing with him.

"Khawuleth', umshini wami!"

Now, Kifo began to dance—he wasn't good at it, and it was difficult to do while singing, but still, he managed to pull off a few L-kicks, flares, and confusions; all in all, not too bad.

"Umshini wami mshini wami."

"Khawuleth' umshini wami… umshini wami mshini wami! Khawuleth' umshini wami, khawuleth' umshini wami."

"Wen' uyang' ibambezela! Umshini wami… khawuleth' umshini wami."

Jiwani, and, for that matter, all of the surrounding Balochistan area had been emptied; everyone was here, now, ready to go. Kifo wouldn't disappoint them.

The song ended, and he started to speak again.

"Zelaya is ousted! Come, brothers, let's g—wait, wait a moment. So sorry… cell phone."

The demon turned, grumbling to himself, and pressed a single button, bringing the device to his ear. He didn't realize, however, that he'd neglected to turn his microphone off; everything said was audible to the crowds at large.

"Who the fuck is this, I'm fuckin' busy, I—oh, shit—I mean, sorry, Mom, but—no—y—what do you mean? Of course I—_what_?! This is—grounded? Are you—no, not now, I'm—gah… fine. Bye… …yeah, love you too."

Wincing, the demon turned. Clearing his throat, for a moment, he swallowed, choosing his words carefully.

"Yeah dudes… sorry, I gotta go take out the trash, alright? Alright. Kthxbai," he said, before suddenly and inexplicably vanishing.

Due to the ethnonationalistic nature of his speeches, Kifo's supporters were, by and large, of Romulan heritage. Clad in bellbottoms and keffiyehs, and little else, they looked at each another in silence, disappointed—they'd all cleared their schedules; now what were they going to do? The night was so young…

"It's alright, it's alright," Kishindo said, walking on stage, smoothing out her skirt nervously, "We have a back-up plan—hit it, boys!"

The explosion of music was sudden and unexpected. What was really shocking, though, was who Kishindo had hired as back up, in case the worst happened—which it had.

A coalition of Marilyn Manson and Angry Aryans entered the stage with as much violence as _possible_, following the directives of their producer, Michael Scheuer. Their first poem appealed to the environmentalist factions of Kifo's supporters; the second and third focused on clinching the extremist libertarian fringes.

After that, everyone packed up, headed home and went to bed, awaiting another bright, sunny day, and another opportunity to make the world a better place.

* * *

(It seems that I have finally been able to throw Marilyn Manson into this fanfiction, a goal I've held for some time now. Look forward to the next chapter of My Name after Freak the 22nd comes out. So, until later… this is the Lion Sheikh of fanfiction—see you soon.)


	11. Homeland IV: Gone Missing

The Lion King: My Name

Chapter 11: Homeland IV: Gone Missing

* * *

(In the name of Allah, the all-compassionate and all-merciful, I would like to say that I like sweet potato fries. On a related note, I would like to let you all know that this will be the final chapter in My Name. From here on out, Kifo's story will be told in the Freak.)

* * *

One can only imagine what the White Sands pride thought when the dust cleared, settling, revealing that neither Aoi, Akane, nor their bodies were anywhere to be seen. Surely, they spent some time searching, before finally admitting to themselves that, of their free will and volition, their cubs had intentionally and purposefully escaped.

Everyone knew that Akane and Aoi were not impulsive, hasty beings; not when there was time and reason to pause, think, and plan. This meant that they'd been thinking about escaping for a good deal of time, directly under the noses of their parents. In reflection, the adults would realize that they'd missed reasonably obvious signs that there was more to their cubs than immediately met the eye; after all, hindsight is 20/20.

We'll never know for certain if the pride members quarreled among themselves, if they cried, if they forbade all future reference to their lost cubs, or if they did something else altogether—the Lion Sheikh won't speculate. What is certain, though, that the pride had vitally changed; for the rest of its numbered days, it would be nothing like what it was before the attempted breakout.

Not that it particularly mattered to Akane and Aoi, anymore. Or maybe it did—they never spoke about it to one another, though, and there was obviously no one else to speak to.

Never before had they been away from their parents for so long, and _never_ had they been together for so long as well. The entire trip was a series of learning experiences—in short order, both learned much about the other. For instance, Aoi found out that prior to sleeping, Akane had a habit of checking himself for injuries obsessively, a task that the lioness adopted as her own when she realized its utility. For his part, Akane came to find out that immediately after waking up, his beloved lay down for a few moments extra, gathering her wits, or baiting a potential assailant—take your pick.

For a few days, they just wandered around north of the Falme, in an undesirable patch of land technically part of the White Sands' territory. There wasn't much to do—it was even less hospitable than the Shadow Lands, south of the Pride Lands. Post-volcanic, cratered, cracked soil thirsty for moisture that came once every several years didn't support much life—during their entire excursion in that miserable place, the felines saw a scorpion, a vulture, and a mouse—that's all.

Understandably, they hastened to leave that terrible, pockmarked land. And soon, they successfully did, finding their way into the Eastern Jungle.

Now, one must keep in mind Aoi and Akane's homeland when imagining the _shock_ they got when the new land came into sight.

The White Sands are just that—white sands. That's all—there are dunes, yes, but besides those and the lions' den and the shantytown constructed for the slaves and the excavation sites, all within meters of one another, there was _nothing_. There were few noticeable geographical features, and even fewer significant ones.

The Eastern Jungle, on the other hand, had trees… among other things, of course, but for the moment, let's focus on the trees.

Akane and Aoi had only ever seen trees in the Black Hills, and those tall, foreboding pines and sequoias were nothing like the twisted, tangled, green, leaf-topped foliage that comprised something of a protective barrier for the Eastern Jungle against the outside world.

Needless to say, they were intimidated. And now, without the ready reproach of their parents, they were able to show it, and express it.

"It can't be that dangerous."

Akane said that, and, a moment later, he followed it up with a slight, tentative smile.

"After all, lions live there. They're a different pride, yes, but they're still lions. If they can make a home there, we can survive there—at least for some time. So… at least, let's go in, for a moment… just a little."

Aoi nodded, barely taking her eyes off the foreboding greenery ahead. Somehow, for some reason, she felt… strange, as if something wasn't quite right in the Eastern Jungle. She was new to this type of landscape, of course, but normally, she doubted she'd be this frightened.

"I agree," the lioness said, finally, "but, Akane… let's be very, _very_ careful. Don't make fun of me for this—"

"I won't—"

"—but I think that there's something wrong here."

After a moment of careful consideration, Akane nodded. "Can you be more specific, Aoi?... or is this the best information you can give?"

"I'm sorry, Akane. I don't have anything but gut instinct."

"Alright." The lion sighed, then nodded again. "We'll go in, then… but carefully. If it seems alright, we'll go farther, but if there's anything wrong, we won't stay for long. …I suppose we'll stay near the Jungle for a few days if that happens. If, after that time, it still doesn't feel safe, we'll simply go to the Pride Lands. Fair?"

Aoi nodded, still tense. Akane made her jump, some, by suddenly touching his snout to her cheek, then grinned, before going quiet, eyes forward.

"Now, then… let's see if the Nomads are home…"

* * *

Yes, he'd gone by Dato, until very recently. With his name, he'd shed… well, a good deal of fur, firstly. But, strangely, there were even more noticeable characteristics, some of them more or less defining traits, that he'd lost.

Humanity is a word that's difficult to apply to a clouded leopard. This, however, was a being that was faithful, merciful, kind, and much, much more, until Kifo had almost literally ripped him apart and then glued him back together.

He was bigger, now. Stronger, too. Faster, deadlier, angrier—but not smarter. Despite the muscle that rippled, unnaturally, all over his frame, he moved in a bizarre, sideways manner, as if half of him wanted to move and attack and kill, while the other half wanted nothing more than to run all the way back to the Black Hills.

That gave the Black Army a solid chance against him.

…Well… maybe.

Though misguided, due to senses that either weren't working exactly as they were supposed to or the fact that he was battling himself as much as he was fighting the ex-humans, it was clear that he was dominating the fight from its onset. It seemed that this little patch of the Eastern Jungle would, shortly, become little more than a hecatomb.

The Black Army, of course, resisted without fear, delay, or even consideration of the possibility that this might be the time to escape and live to fight another delay. They all opened up with their signature 5.56mm barrage, but such a tactic was not effective. Dato was simply too fast.

He dodged bullets naturally, easily; the speed he'd been born with augmented by what had to be a factor of three or four meant that he could practically watch them coming at him. The first swath of gunfire made the leopard dive forward, low, before quickly getting to his paws and jumping to the side to avoid the next attack.

Stupidly, the Black Army didn't change their tactics—their Master was wrestling with their weak minds, trying to get them to respond, but, it seemed, he was doubly subdued by the combined efforts of the Spirits, as well as Dato.

Things grew desperate for the Black Army rather quickly. Giving up on the mainstay of their offensive hardware, they switched to the underslung shotguns that their MG36s sported—surely, the wider swath of firepower provided by the Masterkeys' buckshot would gain them at least a few palatable hits…

This didn't seem to be the case. With unnatural speed, Dato continued to dodge, ever increasing his proximity to the fighters. The Black Army held its ground, though, even as it started to let loose with normal machinegun fire, as its shotguns ran out of ammunition.

Nothing, though, could hold the clouded leopard back. Within a minute, he was on them.

At close range, the Black Army was hopeless against Dato. Yet, he didn't kill them outright, due to the degree of control he still had over the twisted remains of his body—the blows that fell on the fighters were weak in comparison to what they could be, though still devastating. Quickly, the fighters were separated, knocked apart by Dato's powerful paws, left struggling to get up, only to be beat down again.

They were going to lose—there was absolutely no question about it. Kifo had done his work well, reprogramming Dato's mind much, much more effectively than his former Master could ever have hoped to do himself. Essentially, the leopard was a focused, guided drone—his target, of course, was the Black Army, and his goal was to destroy them. As a failsafe, the demon had ensured that, after that, Dato would end himself.

The Black Army fighters were separated, moving slowly, jerkily, due to both their injuries, as well as the fact that their Master's controls were being jammed from two directions. They were going to lose—they _would_ have lost, if, just then, Dietz had decided against intervening.

With a sudden roar to announce his presence and take the pressure off the Black Army, the lipard moved in, rapidly—the Black Army noticed him, yes, but didn't react; if he was an enemy, he was still a lesser threat than Dato, and if, somehow, he was an ally, there was nothing to be gained by gawking.

When Dietz entered the scene, Dato was over one fighter, a tall, broad-shouldered man who traced his roots to the southern tip of Africa. Though what remained of his chest was protected by extra magazines and Kevlar, the clouded leopard's claws and teeth made short work of it; cutting, tearing through, making their way to his weak internals, ignoring the weak shoves and punches offered in resistance…

Dato was far, far too bloodthirsty to pay much attention to his surroundings, his focus was complete to a fault. Dietz's sudden attack caught him totally off-guard, so much so that, despite the fact that he was now nearly the size of a lion, the clouded leopard went flying.

The Black Army started to get to its feet—the fighters' weapons were raised, and, for a moment, moved from the leopard, to the lipard. Then, though, they seemed to come to a decision, and formed up around Dietz.

They were in a semi-circle, now, facing the downed hulk that was Dato. The Black Army started to spread out, prepared to open fire at any time—the jungle here had been cleared out, somewhat, so that there were fewer trees and plants to impede their bullets. Humidity hung in the air _nearly_ as thick as tension—Dato was down, yes, but neither the Black Army nor Dietz was willing to bet that he was dead.

In the end, it was the lipard that moved forward, slowly. His newfound allies flanked the leopard, weapons trained on his shaggy, mangy form; each aiming for a different vital part. A diversified investment of bullets like this, so to speak, would be most likely to put Dato down again and keep him down, should he rise again.

Dietz was only a foot or so away from Dato, when the leopard did something that could not have been foreseen. Something that would have done Kifo proud.

Something that neither the Black Army nor Dietz properly saw…

All they knew was that one minute, they were surrounding the leopard, and the next, something horrible happened to them all—it was a screaming, buzzing sound that seemed to play not into their ears, but directly into their minds. It made Dietz drop down, roaring, clutching at his head, almost clawing himself to get that terrible, hateful sound out. The Black Army fighters merely froze, and started to twitch, strangely—it seemed that Dato's attack, whatever it was, was blocking their Master's communication almost entirely.

By the time Dietz and the fighters recovered, the leopard was on his feet, having escaped completely from the dangerous snare that had wrapped around him. He was stumbling in manner that suggested that despite everything, he was still fighting—himself—defiantly, struggling to overcome the monster that had taken control of his body. Yet, the teeth that protruded from his mouth were very real, and very well prepared for use—for the moment, at least, the real Dato, so to speak, was not in control.

The leopard certainly looked out of it—he was wheezing, his eyes were unfocused, yet, it was obvious that the second the Black Army or Dietz moved again, he would attack. So, for the moment, they remained still—then, carefully, they began to test the waters.

Four of the fighters knelt, shouldering their rifles. The other fighter slowly moved in, slowly, as did Dietz; the double-pronged offensive was a variant of a pincer maneuver. Dato wisely moved back, though, into the thicker, untamed part of the Jungle—foliage would make an attack very, very difficult indeed. Particularly when—

_"Damn. He's fast."_

Dietz had time to think that, and nothing else, before he was tackled.

The Black Army opened fire again with only slight regard for the lipard's safety, but it was inconsequential—he and Dato were moving far, _far_ too fast to be hit. Though Dietz resisted as much as possible, striking his enemy with repeated, desperate claw slashes, Dato seemed to absorb or ignore the blows, or both. He had the lipard by the mane, and was dragging him as he ran, away from the Black Army, to somewhere safe, somewhere private, where he could kill his newest enemy without distraction.

That was Dato's plan, and it would have been realized, if it wasn't for you meddling kids—that is, Dietz's pride.

At Roderik's orders, the Nomads had gotten into position to assist or retreat, as their leader saw fit, but had stood down, invisible. Things, though, were starting to get out of hand.

The majority of the pride—the vast, overwhelming majority, in fact—jumped into position around the Black Army, surrounding them from all sides, including the treetops. The single-minded ex-humans didn't see their world well enough or didn't relay what input they received efficiently enough for their Master to react to the fact that, as the fight had raged on, the Nomads had carefully slipped into position, sometimes literally right over his fighters' heads.

Though Dato was still at large, he was far away—and the Black Army didn't want to have another fight, another, new set of enemies on its hands—not then, not like that. So, though they held their ground, preparing to defend, weapons at the ready, they did not attack. The snarls and growls worn by the lions were… intimidating.

Only one lion was breaking up the fight between Dietz and Dato—and it wasn't the biggest, strongest, quickest, or, perhaps, smartest of the group. It was the oldest—it was Roderik.

A powerful, open paw strike to the jaw knocked Dietz out, at least for the moment. Dato looked up, just in time to see the old lion dance away, collecting energy…

Too late, the clouded leopard realized what was going on and broke off his attack on Dietz. He raced directly towards Roderik, claws suddenly gaining several inches in ironclad length, perfectly suited to cleaving flesh from bone, but the lion froze him in his tracks.

Then knocked him back several—dozen—yards.

Oh, Roderik didn't use a physical attack. What he did was a complicated and very secret maneuver, designed to repel beings that were simply not meant to exist in this part of the world. A series of quiet, almost poetic phrases in the old language of the Land of the Spirits made the old lion's fur ripple in an unseen breeze, before he'd pushed forward with his paws, directing a great deal of force directly towards Dato.

The leopard hit a tree hard, after breaking through several others like an armored missile. Bones broke and blood followed, but, even as Roderik looked on, coldly, he could see that Dato was still breathing—still very much alive.

"Keep on them! Don't let them move, and if they say anything, don't talk back! I'll take care of this," Roderik called to his subordinates, sparing a glance at his idiot nephew—Dietz was still unconscious.

Knowing that he had perhaps only seconds to act, the old lion moved fast, ignoring the protests of his worn bones. Within seconds, he was standing over Dato, pale mane ruffled, slightly, by the damp air of the Eastern Jungle. There was neither time nor reason to completely diagnose the leopard—it was as Roderik had suspected.

"An infection like this… is not within my ability to heal, or treat, for long," the lion murmured to himself. "But I can stop it from spreading, for a time. Apart from that, the only one that can help…" a smile made its way to Roderik's lips, despite everything. It had, after all, been so, so very long since he'd seen the only being in the Land of the Spirits that was almost as old as he.

The lion felt somewhat bad for what had to be done next, but there was no getting around it. And if Dato was a thinking being, he would, in time, thank Roderik for the brutal but necessary procedure being undertaken.

Still, though—several square feet of fur gone, a clear half-gallon of congealed, diseased blood drained, and nine or ten large pawfuls of muscle ripped away as an insurance policy, in case the "surgery" failed… Dato would probably forgive Roderik, in time. Until, then, though, he'd be pissed off—if he lived.

* * *

There are many tense borders in the world, where a single look out of place, one toe over the line, can result in instant, chaotic, large-scale violence—the 38th Parallel, the Indian-Pakistani border, and the contested fence separating the Lion Sheikh's yard from a very unfriendly neighbor's, for instance.

Very, very few, however, could compare to the scene in the Eastern Jungle, just then.

The Eastern Nomads were a tough bunch to stare down. From birth, they'd all experienced life at its highest and lowest points, at its most brutal, barbaric core, and its most beautiful, heavenly peaks. They'd all fought and shed blood and, to live, done things that few can easily imagine—but the Black Army was, apparently, unintimidated by them.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they were receiving a new member soon. (Sorry for the A/N, but if you can guess who he/she is—and yes, he/she has appeared in this universe before—you get mad props. And a cookie.) Or, more likely, it was simply because fear was an emotion that didn't apply to them in any fashion.

The blank stares in their eyes were somewhat—alright, _extremely_ unsettling, but the Nomads didn't show their discomfort, not even the juveniles, not even the cubs. Everyone stood their ground without backing down—though they'd eventually, gradually closed their mouths, the expressions their faces held were not at _all_ friendly… with a few exceptions. Kurt, and a few other of Dietz's more notable friends, seemed to be following their orders neutrally, without passion—perhaps a wise move, all things considered.

It was still a tense eight minutes, though, before Roderik returned.

The leader took his place among his pride, looking, calmly, at the humans, who hadn't reacted to his appearance. They still had their MG36s raised, ostensibly ready to spray, but, still, hadn't quite started shooting yet. So, Roderik spoke.

"I am Roderik, leader of the Nomadic Pride of the East, owners of the Eastern Jungle, of the Land of the Spirits. Normally, I would welcome you into our home, but, it seems, you've preemptively accepted our salutations…" It was a not-so-subtle way of pointing out the Black Army's misdeeds—Roderik was fairly sure that they wouldn't care, but still, information about whoever he was speaking to, now, was vital.

For a minute, however, the former humans didn't speak. Then, in unison, in a strange, jerky manner, suggesting that power from their Master was still being interfered with, they answered.

"We are the Black Army. We were attacked by the leopard. We defended ourselves."

Technically, they were right, Roderik noted. So, nodding, the lion pressed, a little, asking for clarification.

"Who are you?"

"The Black Army."

"…What are you…?"

"The Black Army."

Damn. It seemed they were every bit as robotic and mindless as they appeared—getting a straight answer from the braindead group wouldn't be easy.

"What is your purpose?"

"Follow Master's orders."

"Master?"

"Follow Master's orders."

Roderik ignored the sick feeling rising in his gut, and pressed on.

"Who is your Master?"

The Black Army didn't answer, didn't reply at all. Roderik's eyes narrowed.

"Before you were attacked by the leopard… what were you doing? What was your—why…" he paused, rethinking his question, "did your Master send you here? What was his purpose in doing so?"

The answer was as curt, as it was, all at once, startlingly accurate and uselessly vague.

"Evil."

Roderik contemplated, for a moment, before asking his next question.

"Who are the monkeys you've been fighting? Why are you fighting them?"

"We fight the White Army because they're rivals."

_"So. They're evil, too."_

"Does this White Army… have a Master, as well? Similar to yours, perhaps?"

"Not anymore."

There wasn't a trace of emotion, of pride, in the Black Army's collective voice. They were practically zombies, it seemed, to the core.

"My nephew saved you," the lion mentioned, waiting, for a moment, to see if the Black Army would react—it didn't.

"He saved you, and I have… eliminated the threat the leopard poses to you. You're in our debt."

Again, there was no reply.

"So, it's not unreasonable for me to demand an answer to this question," Roderik said, maintaining a reasonably courteous tone, despite everything. "Why are you in our Jungle, in our home, warring another group simply because their brand of evil is at odds with yours? Why should we tolerate you?"

The Black Army was silent, for a moment. When they spoke again, it was in a less harsh, curt, and somewhat more persuasive tone.

"If you help our Master achieve his goals, you will be rewarded. With immortality, and much, much more. We all died, but we're here, after death, and when our Master succeeds, he will be grateful to his first followers. Join us, and you will not regret it. We will win, and you will share in our glory."

"Presumptuous, isn't it," Roderik said after a moment, "to think that we'd be willing to entertain the idea of fighting for evil if you dangle the prize of immortality in front of us?"

There was a few seconds of tense silence that followed, before the old lion spoke again.

"If you can't guess, on behalf of the Eastern Nomads, I reject your offer. Furthermore, I am disbarring you from existing in our Jungle—_you will leave immediately_… or we will help you leave. Am I understood?"

"Just one moment, Uncle…"

Every Nomad's eyes flickered, briefly, to the source of the voice. And, predictably, it was Dietz—the lipard was limping, a little, rubbing his jaw with a paw, snarling, a bit, spitting out blood on occasion. Regardless, he spoke in a powerful, questioning tone, standing several yards from the leader of the pride.

"Noble fighters of the Black Army," he said, humbly, "I am Dietz of the Eastern Nomads, heir to the position of alpha, once that artifact that just spoke to you now finally dies. I'm… interested," he said, delicately, "in hearing more details about your offer… specifically about your Master. …What's he—or she, or it… like? How powerful…?"

"He created us. He created the being that created that leopard. He's powerful enough to challenge the Spirits and win. He's been fighting them for quite some time. But events in recent generations have put him above even footing with them. That's why there's less food for his enemies, more conflict, more death."

"But joining him is a wise decision."

"Yes. Immortality is granted immediately. After that, you earn weapons, glory, power. There's no limit… none. Master's plans know no bounds. After this Land, he'll take another one, whether it's in five years, ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred. After this world, he'll take another. Then another. Then another. If you stay by his side, you'll prosper."

"And if he loses?" Dietz asked.

"Your fate is the same as it will be in a generation regardless. You will die."

The questions Dietz had posed were all reasonable—he was conducting a cost-benefit analysis. Of course, he couldn't confirm any of what the Black Army said, but they didn't really have a reason to lie to them, and everything they said made sense. The lipard couldn't think of any way in which they could be lying, so… this proposition deserved thought, at least.

"You're not seriously thinking about joining them, are you?"

This question wasn't asked in Roderik's usual powerful, authoritative tone. This voice was different—it was sad, remorseful, and just a little fearful, as well. Dietz didn't face his uncle as he spoke curtly.

"Of course I am. This is what leaders do—we weigh all of our options. All of them. Why shouldn't we join them? Why should we so readily turn down an option that may bring us to utopia?"

The old lion was silenced by that response, albeit only for a moment. He again spoke in that strange, timid tone, even as he gave his nephew a quavering, sad smile.

"Perhaps… because it's… evil? …Look at these things, these Black Army fighters. You want an existence like that, nephew? You want to work for evil—you want to fight and kill and destroy if it means that your life is a little… better?" he almost spat that word.

Dietz nodded. "I'm willing to think about it, at least. As should you, Uncle."

"I don't take advice from a _brat_," Roderik snarled, suddenly angry, taking a vicious step towards Dietz who, for once, remained stoic and passive, "that, somehow, has missed learning the difference between right and wrong."

"Normal morality doesn't apply here," the lipard said softly, still refusing to face his relative. "If we can improve our lives so, so much… the notion that doing supposedly 'evil' things is a necessary sacrifice should be entertained. Tough decisions sometimes have to be made."

It took a _lot_ to get Roderik mad, but his nephew was getting close to doing it—dangerously close. The lion didn't strike, however—he merely drew himself up, directly in front of the younger feline, and snarled, baring his teeth inches from Dietz's face.

"Don't condescend to me like this—my leadership experience surpasses yours. Infinitely—so, nephew, for once in your life, _shut up_—we'll deal with your… disgusting ideas, later, once these demons have left our homeland. Now, you _will_ help your pride expel the Black Army from its home. You will do it _now_."

No amount of creative interpretation or sneaky disobedience could prevent Dietz from following this direct order. Even more direct defiance was necessary, it seemed.

"No."

"What?" Roderik was shocked, for a second. His nephew might be many things—but so directly, so willfully defiant?

"I said, no," the lipard said. "I will go with the Black Army, hear their position out, ask more questions, and, when I'm ready, make a decision. I won't shut off potentially profitable paths due to silly principles held by ineffective, out-of-touch leaders."

The offhand, natural insult was as cold and harsh as a slap in the face. Roderik stepped back, still dumbstruck.

"You will only expel the Black Army… over my dead body. And anyone that wishes to come with me," Dietz said, addressing the pride at large, "is very welcome to do so."

It was time to pick sides, it seemed. Dietz's expression was blank, save for a terrible glint of satisfaction in his eyes, whereas his uncle's was desperate, pleading, as he looked over his friends, his family—surely, none would go with his idiot nephew…?

Eventually, about a quarter of the pride stood down from their positions, forming up around Dietz. Under his shock and sadness, Roderik wasn't surprised at who joined the lipard, mostly—Kurt, a few other of his close friends… but several lionesses went, too. As did their cubs.

Families were going to mangled, torn apart; just as the pride would, if Roderik allowed this to happen. Yet, direct action might not be the best choice—the two forces were more or less evenly matched, and the lion didn't dare rouse Dato; the leopard would be either comatose or a loose cannon.

Face slowly falling, Roderik decided what to do. There was going to be conflict and violence, that was for certain, but, perhaps, he could minimize it. Perhaps.

* * *

Unbeknownst to the Black Army, and the two factions of the Nomads, there was another group presently preparing for action in the Eastern Jungle. Well, actually, there were two—but let's focus on Akane and Aoi, for the moment.

Slowly, they'd overcome their fears. For a few moments, they'd paced around the very edge of the Jungle, slowly making short, brief incursions beyond the tough, foreboding trees. Insects and humidity annoyed and frightened them, at first, but quickly, the White Sands natives learned that these small annoyances were just part of life in a jungle environment.

It was with a sense of wonder that they started to walk forward, making their way past the outer fringes of the Jungle, for the first time. They stepped lightly, and jumped at unfamiliar sounds and scents and sights, but felt little fear.

"This is nothing like the Black Hills," Aoi murmured, quietly, eyes trailing a giant, black and red butterfly's corkscrewing path through the air. "That land is all trees and rock. This… no two parts are the same."

"You're right," Akane agreed. "This place is completely different from home. Still, I feel certain that we can make a life for ourselves here, if the Nomads let us…"

His voice trailed off, as did his motion. Both lions stopped in their tracks, freezing—but didn't take cover. They simply did not understand how to conceal themselves in an environment like this, so they remained motionless—that's how they'd always hidden themselves in the White Sands.

There was something, or someone, or a group of somethings or someones up ahead, approaching. They couldn't see what it was—the high amount of water in the air in addition to the dense, packed nature of the area gave them very low visibility. All they saw was a motion vector—they had no idea how to react, because, for all they knew, the Eastern Nomads could be coming to welcome them.

The group that was approaching the White Sands expatriates, in fact, was about a dozen or so heavily armed members of the White Army.

The monkeys approached the lions, rather curiously, but didn't speak. Instead, they just stared, more curious than hostile, at least for the moment—even they could tell that Akane and Aoi were foreigners.

It would be interesting to see what would have happened if things were left alone. Instead, however, the unmistakable sounds of combat and violence distract the White Army, and the young lions—they all turned, attempting, unsuccessfully, to look through the Jungle, at where the conflict was going on, over a half mile away.

Akane and Aoi weren't sure how to react—they shied away, at first, then paused. The monkeys were bearing their teeth, snarling in the general direction of the fight, before suddenly moving towards it at a good speed, ignoring the felines completely.

Thus, they were left alone again, for a moment. But after sharing a glance, the two cats followed, as quietly as they could manage, being sure to give the White Army fighters plenty of space. Simple curiosity led them on… but, as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat.

* * *

Roderik and Dietz were gearing up for a fight, by then. After telling the rest of the pride to _not_ get involved, they'd started to circle, snarling, glaring at each another.

Dietz was quicker and more fluid and more agile than his uncle, but the lion had the experience and wisdom of age, and a thousand more fights under his belt than his arrogant relative. Still—he was old, _very_ old, and he didn't give himself great odds for winning.

But he had a chance.

Thus far, the fight was more like a dance, than anything else. Moving carefully, weighing each step and thinking it and its results out in their minds before moving, the two moved around a clearing, only a few yards from the Black Army and the rest of the pride.

It had been Roderik that had instigated the fight, and perfectly, ignoring the shocked expressions the loyalists wore—his objective was to show Dietz's followers the weakness of their leader, thusly, perhaps, winning some of them back. Dietz had been more hesitant to battle it out immediately, but, quickly, the lipard realized that it was going to happen anyway, and he might as well exploit the opportunity—if he won, he could, potentially, pressure the rest of the pride into following him… that is, if he killed his uncle.

For some reason, that thought didn't particularly disturb him.

"Heheh. This is going to be fun," he murmured, before a twisted, malicious smile spread across his face. "Good luck to you, Uncle. And may the best lion win."

"Oh, don't worry, dear nephew," the old lion said regally, before his face and eyes set, "I plan to."

A roar then echoed through the Eastern Jungle—but it wasn't a feline roar.

Twelve of the White Army's finest suddenly exploded through a nearby treeline, ready to rock and roll. Instantly, the Black Army reacted, raising their weapons to their shoulders, leveling them at the monkeys—but the Nomad loyalists hissed threateningly, regrouping, a little, forming a barrier between White and Black.

Roderik reacted as well, yelling at the Black Army to stand down, while demanding identification from the White Army. Dietz, on the other hand, merely stepped back and watched, curious to see what would happen—he took the opportunity to call his followers to him with a casual jerk of his head, moving them well out of harm's way.

Fighting hadn't broken out yet, but there was no indication that either of the two Armies were going to back down. The monkeys had spread out, swinging their weapons threateningly, while the Black Army fighters picked their targets—violence seemed inevitable, so Roderik's mind raced, even as he continued to try to defuse the situation—what to do next?

A moment later, as the old lion started to order certain members of his pride—the young, the weak, the sick—out of the danger, soon-to-be bullet-filled space between the opposing armies, things were further obfuscated by the appearance of two new felines.

Roderik only spared them a glance before telling two powerfully-built lionesses to deal with them, for the moment—he had a lot on his plate already. But even as the old lion worked, desperately, to maintain the peace, he could see that he wouldn't be successful—it was time to play damage control.

He began to call his forces back, so that there were less and less Nomads between the warring Armies. The Black fighters, however, didn't wait until there were none left to start their attack.

At point blank range, there was little point in aiming. The former humans just depressed the triggers of their weapons and held them down, concentrating on filling the air between them and their enemies with as many bullets as possible. A few of the Nomads took hits—all glancing shots, fortunately—but managed to get out of the way within seconds, letting the Black Army face off against the dozen monkeys.

A match like this wouldn't end well for the White Army, that was certain. Still, though—the monkeys were close enough to their enemies to, perhaps, take one down, or at least damage one—so instead of turning tail and retreating, they moved forward, accepting bullets, converging on one fighter, the closest, weapons raised.

"Fall back! Get to the western border of the Jungle, now!" Roderik yelled over the vicious firefight. "We need to—"

The loyalist faction of the Nomadic pride was leaving. But Dietz's splinter group would certainly do itself good to taste the blood of their venerable former leader.

Four strong lions pounced on Roderik, Dietz not included—in a stunning and unforeseen move, the lipard attacked the White Army from its unprotected flank, shattering the offensive. As the monkeys turned on him, the Black Army fighters were able to drop one, then two, then three, then more.

One of the fighters broke off the White Army, and kneeled, machinegun leveled at the tumultuous ball of fur and claws that were Roderik and the four that had betrayed him. Cagily, the former human moved forward, a little, attempting to get a clear shot, but, even as he fought the four traitors all at once, Roderik danced out of the Black fighter's sights.

The Nomad loyalists followed their leader's orders, knowing that he'd be able to hold his own. The rest of those that had broken off from the main pride pulled back as well, out of fear of being caught in the crossfire, which was a very real danger in a fray like this.

For a moment, Akane and Aoi were left alone, and looked at one another, as terror began to set in—what on Earth had they gotten themselves involved in? There was little time to ponder that question, however—one of the Nomad loyalists stayed back, for a second, and called to them.

"You two! This way, now! We have to get you out of here! Come on!" the lioness shouted over the loud, close gunfire.

She didn't have much persuading to do, though. The White Sands lions followed immediately; anywhere they were going was almost certainly better than where they were. Gunfire chased them, encouraging them to go faster, despite the unfamiliar terrain, but the young felines didn't trip and fall—already, they were starting to adapt to the new land.

The trip to the western boundaries of the Eastern Jungle didn't take long at all—once the Nomads and the White Sands expatriates arrived, they all collapsed, for a moment, panting, catching their breaths.

After that, though, they listened—closely.

For the most part, the Jungle was silent. There were, of course, the normal ambient noises that, over time, the Nomads had learned to tune out. Even Akane and Aoi couldn't pick out anything significant in the din—there were no more gunshots, and no other decidedly combat-related sounds, either.

"So… who are you two?" one Nomad asked, eventually, pacing around, glancing in Akane and Aoi's direction for a moment. "White Sands lions, no doubt… why have you been sent here? You're both very young to be involved in inter-pride relations."

"That's…" Akane said delicately, quietly, for a moment, before sighing, and shaking his head. "We'll explain when your leader returns. It's a long story."

"You mean, it's about a matter over my head."

After thinking, for a second, the blue eyed lion nodded.

"That's right."

The lioness that had been speaking to them smiled, just a little, and shrugged nonchalantly.

"Understandable. Then, you have as good a reason as we do to want Roderik to return, al—" something caught in her throat. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to cope with the possibility that, in his age, against such powerful foes, Roderik might finally have met his match.

"Please don't worry too much," Aoi said after a moment, offering the other lioness a nervous smile. "He was fighting four of those lions, alone, without much difficulty. I'm sure he'll be able to escape… he's probably just too tired to run all the way here, like we did."

"Am I, now?"

Roderik was understandably tired, but stood, proud and strong, as he approached the loyalist Nomads, as well as the newcomers from the White Sands. Blood dyed his fur, in several places, but little of it was his own—he was neither limping nor seemed exhausted; he had the air of someone merely returning from a difficult workout—this despite the fact that he'd carried Dato's still unconscious form, ostensibly, all the way from where it had last been seen.

"Incredible. How did you…?" Akane asked, gaping at the old lion's relative nonchalance.

"It wasn't easy."

The White Sands native waited for a more in-depth explanation; he'd found that, despite everything, he was a sucker for war stories. Talking about fights, though, simply wasn't Roderik's style. So, after the leader of the Eastern Nomads—at least, the loyalist faction of the Eastern Nomads—checked to make sure that all of his subordinates were alright, he turned to face the newcomers.

Clearly, they were from the White Sands—the cautious way they carried themselves about the Jungle, their light fur and eyes… there was no mistaking it. But Roderik didn't want to be presumptuous, and greeted Akane and Aoi in the traditional Nomadic fashion—he placed his right paw on his chest and bowed his head. Reciprocally, the juveniles placed their right paws vertically in front of their faces and bowed more deeply.

"Welcome to the Eastern Jungle, young ones. How are things in your homeland?"

Akane answered, spotting the subtly placed question immediately. "The White Sands…" he paused, then closed his eyes for a moment, "is no longer our homeland."

Roderik blinked, leaning in, his interest piqued. The White Sands lions were known for their staunch loyalty and fanatic nationalism—to have not one but _two_ potential refugees on his hands from that land was to experience an extremely rare phenomenon. Something must have happened. Something big.

"I… want to hear about this, in the greatest detail possible. You look hungry," the lion noted, "we'll eat, and then, you'll share your story with myself, and a few others. Is that acceptable, my dear guests?"

Akane and Aoi nodded gratefully, then took Roderik's invitation to sit down and relax after a day as long and terrifying as it was chaotic. The juveniles got the feeling that despite the Nomadic leader's calm, controlled nature, he was deeply worried about how suddenly and permanently his pride had snapped in two, as well as the fact that he'd totally lost control of the Eastern Jungle to two brutal, opposing armies, one of which would surely treat his pride with hostility, while the other would probably merely ignore them.

Now, though, wasn't the time to press and prod and ask difficult questions of their hosts. Now was the time to rest and relax… while there was still a chance to do so. Because for Akane, Aoi, and the loyalist faction of the Nomadic Pride of the Eastern Jungle, the immediate future held little besides… war.

* * *

"So, they still practice slavery. After so long… I'd assumed that that system had collapsed. It seems I was mistaken."

"Perhaps not," Akane replied. "The rebellion we instigated almost certainly… killed… a few of them." His throat went dry, and he swallowed, before speaking again. "Perhaps they'll give it up yet, but I don't want to go back to find out. Ever."

"Understandable."

A few of Roderik's closest friends—young and old lions and lionesses—had prescreened Akane and Aoi's story, so to speak. The rest of the pride would be told about things later, but for now, what Nomadic leadership had to do was to figure out what to do—they couldn't possibly hold the Eastern Jungle against a concentrated, planned attack by either the Black Army or the White. Dato was another concern unto himself—he couldn't be kept unconscious forever, and he _certainly_ couldn't be allowed to roam—anywhere—unchecked.

"I'm curious," the old lion said, after a moment, "if we were to expel you—purely theoretically—what were your plans? Where were you going to go next?"

"We had a few ideas in mind," the blue eyed juvenile said. "We were thinking of going to the Pride Lands, and if they expelled us… then, there was the Desert, and, if not there, we'd strike out on our own, somewhere. I'm glad to see that that's not our fate, though."

Roderik smiled in a kindly manner at that.

"The Pride Lands," he said. "Can you tell me why that was your plan B?"

"Well, this land was our first hope because it's so close. The Pride Lands were our back-up plan because they have a reputation of generosity and kindness… and, then, there are the legends about how if we as a species must take a last stand, that's where we'll need to do it, right?... I know I'm probably just being superstitious…"

"No," Roderik said, after a moment, "you're not, at all. The legends you're talking about are—I believe—very true. Unfortunately, I'm not very good at prophecy… I do, however, know someone that is."

"As do I," Akane said with a smile, before nodding at Aoi. "My… mate… is gifted with seeing the future, to a degree. It's unfortunate that there was no one in our former homeland that could help her hone her skill."

"That's certain interesting," Roderik said, before turning to the young lioness. "What exactly does your gift entail? Can you see events in the very near future, clearly? Or is it that you get… hints, let's say, or suggestions, that are imprecise and sometimes difficult to explain, but often turn out to be well-reasoned?"

"Generally, I only get bad feelings when I'm about to do something dangerous," Aoi said. "For instance, before Akane and I entered this land, I was very, very worried… and now, we all know why. Many of us could have been killed in that fight."

"You're right," the lion nodded. "So, with that in mind, until we get to the Pride Lands, I want to know everything­—_everything_ that you can sense. Precognition is a rare gift…. It would be a dangerous waste to not use it."

"Just a moment," said one of the loyalist Nomads. "We're going to the Pride Lands?... when? Why?"

"I want to arrive there by dawn, so we're leaving before nightfall. As far as why, I am absolutely convinced that there's something very serious going on in the Land of the Spirits. The Pride Landers will know what to do—and if it turns out I'm wrong, well, we'll need assistance from them, anyway, to drive these intruders from our homeland."

"It's already getting dark," Akane mentioned, before turning back to Roderik. "If we're supposed to leave by nightfall, we'll have to move soon."

"Yes. Rouse everyone, and tell them to prepare for another journey," the old lion sighed. "What a warm welcome home we received today."

* * *

"I felt like a father, Kishindo—a father. You don't know what it's like to give up your only child to—eh… I guess you do. I still don't see why you don't think our little experiment was a waste of time, though. I mean, if he does take out the Black Army, there's no way he's gonna threaten us, I did put in a fail-safe, and everything."

"I just think it's a waste of resources," the lioness replied. "It took time to change him, and, in the end, he probably won't pose a real threat to the Black Army—you're good, after all, Kifo. But not that good. After all, you are a creation—I'm doubtful that you're capable of creating something meaningful on your own."

Somehow, Kishindo managed to make that statement not come out offensively or overly critically, and her words gave Kifo pause—his life… well, his post-life existence, so to speak, had moved far, far too fast for him to wonder just what he was and what he was capable of.

Shrugging, though, the demon replied in a nonchalant, somewhat apathetic manner. "Doesn't matter. I just wanted to see what I could do—give my new power a test, you know? Even if nothing happens, it only took a few hours. Not like I'm pressed for time, anyhow."

Since his victory over the leopards, Kifo had toyed with several ideas, several targets—one was the Pride Lands, but Kishindo had advised against this. For now, the lions that lived there were far, far too powerful for the demon to tangle with—guerilla activity wouldn't work, as Kifo and Kishindo didn't have the finesse or patience to make such a strategy work. After that, though, the lioness had suggested the White Sands.

Kifo had agreed to that idea, quickly. But before doing that… he had an idea.

What he had in mind wasn't technically an attack on the Pride Lands. It was, however, the next best thing.

After all, the demon had reasoned, attempting to sway Kishindo's skepticism, they didn't yet have enough power to take on an entire pride—even an unholy one, like the White Sands. Attacking the Black Army probably wouldn't work, as Kifo had no idea how to fight enemies armed with guns of their own and couldn't practice or find out.

So, what he needed was a way to achieve a great amount of power with minimal risk.

And, after some thought, the two came up with a plan regarding how to do just that.

There was a part of the Pride Lands that was not well protected. Rarely frequented, Simba and Kovu, and, when he'd lived there, Freak, had only patrolled it once every few weeks, at best. There wasn't much there—the terrain was rough and craggy, there was little life and less prey to be found.

Infiltrating it would be _extremely _unwise—the Pride Lands sported an alarm system, of sorts, that would bring every lion in the area running if Kifo set a step onto their territory.

However, if the demon fired bullets into the Pride Land from over a mile away…. the system would still be tripped, yes, but he'd have plenty of time to get away. And the Pride Landers would never, ever dare to pursue a being powerful enough to kill one of their own, _in their own land_, out of the protective shell that the Pride Lands offered.

Of course, since that particular quadrant of the Pride Lands was under-travelled, it would simply be a waste of time to wait there for who knew how long, until someone decided to come. Kishindo, however, had a solution to the problem—and told Kifo not to worry about it.

Still, though, the demon needed time—enough time to craft a weapon powerful and accurate enough to snipe a fully-grown lion from at least a mile away, as well as time to practice his extreme long-range shooting skills.

He wasn't worried, though, and, really, neither was Kishindo. They had all the time in the world…

* * *

"We're almost finished."

"Oh, almost… good," Kovu said, rolling his eyes just a little, smiling. "It hasn't been _that_ long since we started the sanctification process, Simba. Just a few months, that's all."

"I'm sorry," the Lion King sighed, "but it can't be helped. If Rafiki was here, it wouldn't take so long… but we have to make do with what we've got, right? And be honest with yourself… since we started, the quality of life around here has improved."

"That's true," Kiara interjected, peering, with her father and mate, across the familiar, vast landscape that made the Pride Lands. "Hunting's easier these days… not that you two would know how hard it usually is. Misogynists," she teased, sticking her tongue out.

"I have no reply to that," Simba said smoothly. "There's no point in denying the truth."

"Wait, what?"

"Kidding," the auburn maned lion grinned. "I'm glad that things aren't so hard. But I wonder… …nahhh…"

In some ways, Kiara hadn't changed very much from the adventurous kitten that had been the cause of an unknown number of headaches for her father.

"What, Daddy? C'mon, tell me…"

"Well…" the Lion King said slowly, before turning to Kovu, "did your mother ever tell you anything about the Eastern Jungle—specifically, about its pride? The Nomads?"

"A little, I guess," the dark lion said, after a moment of thought. "She said that very early on in the insurgency, she managed to get in touch with them."

"Really?" Simba said, genuinely surprised. "I had no idea… but go on."

"Well, she wanted to recruit them. They are a noble pride, after all, and would certainly be welcome to become rulers of the Pride Lands after they helped her win it back. They declined, of course… and, I'm guessing, not exactly in a polite manner. Mom said that they repeated the propaganda that you always have—that rule of the Pride Lands is only for the righteous and pure, and those with the right kind of lineage. They sympathized with her, at first, but when it became clear that she was only interested in power, expelled her. Fortunately."

"Did she say anything else about them?" Simba asked. Kiara was following things quite well; though a great deal of knowledge had been lost under the terrible regimes of the two Kings that had preceded her father, she could still understand what was being spoken about.

"Maybe… anything about their leader," the King added. "Did she say anything about his age, or his… well, she wouldn't call it wisdom… but did she say anything about any skills, or talents he might have?"

"I'm… not sure," Kovu admitted, "but I don't think so. …No, I don't remember her saying anything about their leader, besides things like, 'He must have gone senile generations ago,' or other silly insults. But it's not possible for lions to live _that_ long. I mean… three generations, tops, that's all we're rated for. I can't see anyone living much longer than that… oh…"

The dark lion winced at that, catching a look from his mate, and his father-in-law. If he'd thought his words out, a bit, before speaking them, he may have noted that Sarabi, in fact, wasn't getting any younger… and, at this rate, it didn't seem likely that she'd see her great-grandchildren. In fact, it didn't seem likely that _anyone_ would see the children of Kovu and Kiara…

"You're actually quite wrong," Simba said. "You know I can do magic… badly," he admitted, "but we all know that Rafiki is extremely powerful, and equally skilled. Or, he was…"

A sad moment passed—the old shaman's presence was greatly missed and just as necessary, but still, his fate was a mystery that _no_ one wanted to leave the Pride Lands to attempt to solve.

"Anyway… there are a great deal of prophecies made by Mohatu, many regard magic. Rafiki was around when they were made—him, and one other being, that still lives… as the leader of the Nomadic Pride of the East."

"But that would make him," Kiara gasped, before counting, or trying to; she simply couldn't comprehend how old that would make the Nomadic alpha.

"Very, very, _very_ old," Simba offered, "but he's supposed to be in good health. That might have changed, recently, with the attacks on the Land of the Spirits—but I'm certain he's alive, still. And I'm equally certain that he knows something that can help us. What I'm not certain of is how to find the Nomadic pride… for all I know, they may not even be in the Land of the Spirits, these days. They could have left… permanently, even.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Kiara, and you, Kovu, and all future Kings and Queens of the Pride Lands," Simba said in a dark, somewhat angry tone. "There is no excuse for not keeping contact with other pride—even if it's just two or three times a year, it's _vital _that we make it clear to one another, from time to time, that we are all brothers. The alternative Is this—a broken, patchwork family without any sense of community or shared responsibility.

"For all I know, the White Sands still practices slavery—but after generations of not even saying a word to them, much less assisting them with difficulties that might have made slavery seem like a reasonable choice, who am I to tell them that what they're doing is wrong? Who am I to act against them?"

"So… this leader…" Kovu said timidly, after a moment, "how… did he know Mohatu? How did Rafiki know Mohatu, for that matter?"

"Rafiki was Mohatu's student," Simba said simply. "As for the Nomadic leader, I have no idea. I want to say that he was Mohatu's student as well, but decided to find his own path in life. To start his own pride... or something like that. We'll have to ask Mother—maybe she knows something about this that I don't."

"Question," Kiara said. "The ability to do magic and stuff… it's passed down, right? Like a family secret, or… or eye color, right?"

"Yes, but it doesn't have anything to do with who your parents are… mostly," Simba said. "It's very complicated. Rafiki has a chart in his tree; I don't know how to read it… but he can tell where the gift will come next, who will get it, and how powerful they'll be. He also has a lot of Mohatu's prophecies, written down… I'd love to see the ones about the next rulers of our land…"

Kiara closed her eyes painfully at that, as did Kovu. Simba looked at them for a moment, sympathetically, before sighing. So, it was as he and Nala had guessed… they were incapable of producing cubs…

"So," Kovu said, after a moment, in a dry, thin voice, "if we can get the Nomad leader over here… he can help us out, big time?"

"Certainly," Simba said, "_if_ we can get him over here. But, like I said, there's no way of knowing where he or his pride is, and the trip to the Eastern Jungle is long and _dangerous_—I mean, you have to go either right next to or through the Falme to get there. It's like tempting death… or war. That's another lesson," the King said. "Don't bother to try to negotiate with that pride. Once in a while, you might get a refugee from there… but otherwise, leave them alone. Unless you intend to defeat them. With violence."

"Correction," Kovu said in a manner that suggested that he really had picked up a lot from Rafiki. "There is… another way to get to the Eastern Jungle. That's how my mother got there without risking contact with the Falme."

"Is there?" Simba said curiously. "Well, out with it, Kovu; what is it?"

"It's a tunnel," the dark lion replied, simply. "An _underwater_ tunnel. My Mom called it the Pass of Two Dragons… when I asked her about it, she just shivered, and changed the subject."

"Do you know where it is, or how to find it?"

Kovu nodded.

"It's near the Jungle—actually, now that I think of it, it's not that far from Fr—from Shujaa's home. There are a couple big, _big_ problems, though.

"It's very, _very_ cold," Kovu said, "and you have to stay underwater for… an extremely long time. Then, there are dangerous undersea predators, and getting in and getting out… isn't something that just anyone can do."

Simba's face hardened. For a moment, he struggled to cope with the multitude of problems facing him. He had to find his cousin, though he felt, despite a lack of evidence, that the Spirits were doing just that, somehow. He had to get the Nomadic leader into the Pride Lands… then, of course, he had to do what he could to get the rest of the prides of the Land of the Spirits—the Desert pride, and the lions of the White Sands—to his homeland, as well. All to combat a force of evil that was getting stronger and stronger by the day.

Everything was getting set for a major showdown, it seemed. Simba had seen and experienced war firsthand—but he knew that what was coming to the Land of the Spirits next—what had already come, in fact—made his coup seem like a fistfight between cubs.

It seemed almost too much to hope that they could win.

"So what you're trying to tell me is that unless we can find a swimmer… an incredibly good one, for that matter… we more or less can't use the Pass of Two Dragons?"

"Yeah. We don't have time to train someone up in swimming; we don't even know how to… and I'm not sure that I'd practice my backstroke in the Forbidden River. Especially these days."

"That's not good," Simba said. "For some reason, I doubt very much that the _White Sands_ or the _Desert_ are going to provide us with a swimmer."

"That's true… but one can hope, right, Daddy?" Kiara said.

The Lion King merely looked at his daughter skeptically, so the lioness sighed… before articulating an idea that just came to mind.

"Know how Mommy left the Pride Lands to search for help?" she said.

"Yes…" Simba said slowly, before blinking—oh, Hell no, his daughter wasn't about to suggest—

"Well…" Kiara continued, in a nonchalant tone, as she nudged a pebble with her paw, "I was thinking… the time could be right for someone… like me… to do the same."

"OUT OF THE QUESTION!" roared Simba, while a shout of "NOT GONNA HAPPEN!" was heard from Kovu.

Once the lioness's ears stopped ringing, she spoke again.

"Well, why not? I mean, I'm not just a girl anymore, I'm a fully grown lioness—"

"That's right," Kovu nodded solemnly, before giving his mate a desperate, pleading look, "you're _my_ fully grown lioness. Kiara, please don't think about this… it's too dangerous. Nala didn't have it easy at all back then, and things will be much, _much_ more dangerous if you go in the near future."

"You're right, but there are a few things you're not keeping in mind. One, I've got a lot of training that Mom never did; two, I have plenty of hunting and fighting experience, more than Mom did when she was my age; and three... I'm not gonna go it alone.

"I was thinking to bring two, maybe three others—we need to move fast, but we need protection, too. Mom, Shenzi, possibly T or Uvuli… that's who I've got in mind."

"Now that you put it like that…" Kovu said, "it doesn't sound… well, I'm not saying, you know, I approve, or that it sounds safe… but it doesn't really sound suicidal, anymore…"

"It's worth thinking about," Simba said, after the younger generation of the Pride Lands' leaders looked to him for a moment. "We don't necessarily need all paws on deck, anymore… sanctification is almost finished, and our borders are very, very well protected. What we don't know is how things outside of our borders are."

"Which is why I want to go in a group," Kiara said. "Even if it is dangerous, we'll be able to protect each another—I mean, only a concentrated, pre-planned move could take out three or four Pride Landers, right?"

Kovu nodded; he seemed to be slowly warming up to the idea. Simba, though, still needed some convincing. So, Kiara smiled, and nuzzled her father, once, putting on her cutest expression—it never failed… usually.

"Please, Daddy? At least, think about it, alright?"

"Well… fine, I'll think about it," the Lion King said. "But do you honestly think you'll find a swimmer in the _Desert_?"

* * *

(Please consider parrots the lions' version of Milanos.)

One can tell a great deal about how desperate situations are by gauging what those they affect are resorting to in order to cope. And judging by the fact that the Pride Landers were sending out some of their finest to the Desert—and later, the White Sands—to search for a swimmer suggested that things were getting _bad_.

Goodbyes had been brief and to the point; there was no use in delaying, and it wasn't like any of the three that were heading out weren't going to return.

Nala, Kiara, and Shenzi left, side by side, from Pride Rock, just a few hours before sundown. Their goal was to reach the southern border of their homeland by nightfall, and be within the vicinity of Freak's former home by noon, the next day—following that, they'd have a few days of travel through the Jungle to decide just how they'd make their way into the Desert.

As they walked across the barren, southern quadrant of the Pride Lands, near which the hyenas and the Outlanders had formerly found their homes, they felt, all at once, excited, anticipatory… and almost chokingly terrified. Leaving the Pride Lands for any amount of time was so dangerous that the Lion King had essentially issued a fatwa against even approaching the border.

"Kinda… lonely out here, doncha think?" Shenzi said as they plodded along, red-orange waves of heat refracting from the rather dry, foreboding grasses of the southern Pride Lands. "I lived around here for more than a few years… but dang, you just can't get used to it."

"I'll take your word for it," Nala replied, before smiling. "Still, it's somewhat nice to be in such a place, together. Just the three of us, roughing it without males, or troubles, or other responsibilities… this could be fun."

"Yeah," Kiara chirped brightly, "we can all stay up until late, eating parrots and swapping stories and stuff."

"Stories about males, no doubt."

"Of course," the young lioness replied. "Wait… are you trying to make a point or somethin' here, Mom?"

"No, not at all, Kiara," Nala sighed, as Shenzi snickered to herself. "I think you've done that perfectly well without me."

The terrain was almost perfectly level—visibility was in excess of three or so miles. In fact, there was so little in the area that despite the late hour, it was quite bright—the trio had to squint whenever they looked vaguely westward.

When the sun finally set, it did so within the space of moments. But in that time, it was so unadulteratedly beautiful that slowly, one by one, the females stopped, turning, dumbstruck by the vast array of colors in the sky. It was a cloudless day, and that was rare—even as the final beams of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, starlight beamed down on them, offering guidance… and hope."You know," Nala said, as they finally started to move again, softly, as if for fear of disturbing the peace that had unexpectedly descended on them, "I'm really glad you came up with this idea, Kiara. Apart from its practicality… well, let's just say that 'male bonding,' whatever that is, isn't the only kind that's important."

No replies were necessary, there was no question posed against the truth of the matriarch's words. The wind picked up, and since there was nothing to stop it, for a moment, they were chilled—the sensation didn't last, though, yet it was still several moments until someone spoke again.

"It's really incredible, isn't it?" Kiara said, before turning to Shenzi, then her mother. "We're literally going to be fighting a historic battle in the very near future… we've been through so much so quickly… but still, these things are so, so important. Kinda like breathing—no matter what's you're doing, it's still essential to life."

Kiara, Nala, Shenzi. Three vastly different beings united by common goals, nationality, and friendship. They'd all been through tough times in their lives, but each one of them had always been able to count on others—at least for company.

Of course, as they shared a smile, and pressed closer still to the southern tip of the Pride Lands, they didn't stop to think about those who had been unfortunate enough to feel real loneliness with unhealthy regularity: Freak. Kifo. Scar.

And then, of course, there was Uvuli.

* * *

Like bouts of unhealthy skinniness and rebelliousness, chronic depression was a common ailment for females, both in the Land of the Spirits and out.

What Uvuli was suffering from, however, wasn't simple teenage angst.

She still loved her father greatly, couldn't recall disobeying the simple rules he asked her to follow, and was of perfectly healthy physique—what troubled her had a definite cause.

But who to talk to?

It didn't seem likely that anyone would understand. Kiara, maybe, but the lioness was gone, now. There was T and the rest of the pride's lionesses… but Uvuli didn't think that any of them would understand her predicament. She certainly didn't, after all.

What about Sarabi, though? Empowered with the wisdom of age and years of experience with all that life had to offer, as well as a kindly, gentle attitude, the old lioness could be her best choice.

After a long day of patrolling, hunting, and completing preparations for the sanctification of the Pride Lands, Uvuli returned to Pride Rock. She returned greetings from her father and everyone else that was already back rather half-heartedly, and, for a moment, rested outside the den, thinking to herself.

_"I'm not gonna be able to deal with this on my own. I need to talk to _some_one…"_

Despite everything, though, Uvuli did have a measure of pride. She didn't want to go to Sarabi and ask for a few moments alone, not with everyone around…

The hyena caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye, and blinked, turning her head. The gait Sarabi had adopted since her injury was unmistakable.

"Hello, Uvuli," the old matriarch said with a smile. "How are you? How was your day…?"

Her questions were simple and somewhat clichéd, but the sincerity of the lioness was shown with every word. What she was really asking were much, much deeper questions…

Now, Uvuli had no excuse for not confronting her troubles. So, sucking in a deep breath, the young hyena stood, eyes downcast.

"I'm… not fine. My day was fine; I mean… …can we talk?" she said, finally looking up at the lioness.

Sarabi didn't seem surprised. She merely nodded in a comforting manner, and purposefully bumped her shoulder into the hyena's. "It's about whatever's been bothering you for the last… months, right?"

Biting her lip, Uvuli hesitated just a little, before nodding.

"Let's go, then, little one," the lioness said gently, leading Uvuli down from Pride Rock. She didn't stop walking, though, until they were well, well way—the long walk gave Uvuli plenty of time to collect her thoughts, attempting to make what sense she could of them before sharing them with Sarabi.

They were moving in a north-northeasterly direction, Uvuli noted, and that was a bit odd.

"Why are we going here, Sarabi?" the hyena asked, curiously. "I mean, I don't think I've ever been this far into the northeastern part of the Pride Lands before. There's nothing here."

"That's not true," the lioness said, though not in a reproachful manner. "When I was young—a long, _long_ time ago… all the lioness cubs used to meet here from time to time, whenever any of us needed to talk about something serious, or just needed a good, old fashioned group hug."

That brought a smile to Uvuli's face.

"And you're sharing this tradition with me?"

"Of course I am," Sarabi smiled. "Since Sarafina…" she shook her head. "Anyway, there's no one in my generation left. But yours and my daughter's and grand-daughter's generations certainly deserve the opportunity to create real, meaningful relationships with other females, right?"

"I guess so," Uvuli replied. "So you've told everyone else about this, too?"

Sarabi shook her head.

"I was waiting for the right time to do so. Unfortunately, Kiara and Nala aren't here right now, and T's still out with Banzai… I was wondering about that, actually. Do you think there's something between them?"

"I'm not sure about that," Uvuli said, as they walked along, together, through a somewhat barren forest. "They're great friends, of course. Dunno if they are, or want to be, something more than that."

"Interesting, interesting…" Sarabi nodded. Anyway, as I was saying… from now on, this land will be used as Sarafina, myself, Zira, and all of our friends used it, all those years ago."

"You and Zira were friends…?" Uvuli asked, slightly surprised by that.

Sarabi nodded, though in a somewhat sad manner.

"_Were_. Yes. She used to be a good hunter, a great tracker… and a gentle, affectionate person, as well. I used to be unsure about what caused her to go bad, as they say… but now that I think of it, I don't think she ever called us here to listen to her troubles or insecurities. Not once. Now, I'm not trying to say that… her problems ate her from the inside out, or something… but it seems to me that keeping so much in for so long isn't… really a good thing to do.

"I agree," Uvuli said, "…which is sorta why I'm here."

Finally, it seemed that they were far enough away from Pride Rock; the massive structure was visible in the distance, nothing more than a short silhouette. Sarabi looked around, for a moment, then led Uvuli to a slight depression, smiling fondly at the memories being here brought.

"Wow… you guys really did used to spend a lot of time here," the hyena said. By paying carefully attention, she could see that there were extremely faint trails leading from what had once been a popular hangout for Sarabi's generation of lionesses.

"You have no idea," Sarabi smiled. "We'd all come here for hours, at least two times a week. We even had a signal to initiate meetings of sorts—there was a log about a few miles to the northeast of here, very close to the border. If you roar into it in just the right way, it amplifies your voice, and changes it, as well. I wish I could describe it to you; it's the most distinctive thing you'll ever heard. It—"

Both females jumped, then staring at a point just a few miles away, to the northeast. A roar was heard—except it wasn't the normal kind of roar. It was much, much louder than any sound a big cat could produce without assistance, and was distorted in a strange, somewhat supernatural manner—it was unmistakable.

"What was _that_?" Uvuli said, blinking, confused—there was nothing in this part of the Pride Lands; certainly, at least, nothing capable of making a noise as loud as _that_. "I've never heard anything like it in my life…"

"I have," Sarabi whispered, staring ahead, looking for movement—but finding none. "That was the signal."

"What?" Uvuli said, disbelievingly. "But wait… …who coulda done it?"

"That I don't know, the lioness replied, eyes narrowing, as she began to move forward, swiftly, but silently, "but you and I are going to find out. Come on."

* * *

"She's coming."

"You're sure?"

"She's coming," Kishindo repeated, "but I think she's not alone."

"Oh?"

"She has someone else with her… a hyena, I think. Nothing serious."

"Good, good…"

Kishindo was a faster runner than Sarabi, and the old matriarch's injury compounded that fact. There was plenty of time to run back to Kifo, who'd set up well away from the border, waiting for Sarabi to show herself.

The demon was armed with a .50 caliber autoloader, a rifle powerful enough to dispatch even the toughest of enemies with a single shot. It would make short work of Sarabi… provided that the demon could hit her—because though he'd practiced endlessly for days, now, he still found that striking targets at such long range was mostly a matter of luck.

"Keep in mind variable humidity and windspeed along the bullet's flight path. At this distance, you'll also have to take the Coriolis Effect into account."

Kifo was in prone position; his rifle rested in front of him on a bipod. Shouldering it, he slowly brought his reticle onto target, where Kishindo had been mere moments ago.

"Hold on," the lioness said, "I think I see her…"

"Target acquired," the demon said thinly. "I've got a positive ID on Sarabi, former Queen of the Pride Lands."

It was then that the wind picked up. Kifo swore to himself, softly, and adjusted the scope of this rifle, just a little, zooming out. He attempted to hold it onto target, but it was useless—he was many things, but he wasn't a creature of precision. He could barely keep the lioness in view—lining up a good shot might well be beyond his abilities.

But he had no choice.

"Kifo, if you're going to take the shot, you should do it soon," Kishindo said. "She might leave before the wind dies down… and if she does, I don't think she'll be back."

The demon gritted his teeth, attempting to slow down his breathing—but it wasn't working. This wasn't working. His target and her companion were walking around the log, sniffing, checking what had been there, and the moment Sarabi recognized Kishindo's scent, they'd be _gone_. He needed to act.

"Oh, what the fuck," he murmured, quietly, before his finger made that brief, short journey backwards, applying just the right amount of force to the trigger of his rifle.

It took Kifo a few seconds to put himself back on target. But when he did, he was surprised.

"What a lot of blood."

* * *

Uvuli froze, then hit the ground, still screaming in terror.

"Sarabi! What happened?!"

The hyena's ears were still ringing, the shot had gone right next to her. She was, in fact, quite lucky that she wasn't deafened by the massive pressure difference.

Her fur had been splattered by the explosion of blood that resulted from Kifo's deadly shot, as had much of the grass and dirt around the lioness. Sarabi hadn't died, instantly, but rather, just a moment after she'd taken the rib-shattering blow just behind her shoulders. Waves of kinetic energy had liquefied her internals within a heartbeat—just long enough for an expression of utter surprise and confusion to come over Sarabi's face.

At least she didn't have time to feel pain or fear.

Uvuli, though, had to feel both.

Still, though, no more than five seconds passed before she reacted, moving directly to where the shot had come from. She didn't blindly charge, though, nor approach in a linear fashion—she zigzagged, dived, sidestepped, every now and then, so that when whoever had killed Sarabi gunned for her, next, she wasn't touched.

Now, she could see her target, at least, somewhat. Snarling, she moved faster, sprinting, now—it occurred to her that killing him outright might not be the best option; she'd learn more by capturing him. It would be interesting to see, though, if she'd be able to hold herself back from smearing him all over the landscape…

* * *

"She's getting closer," Kishindo said, sitting up, a little, ears erect, muscles tensed. "Want me to take her?"

"Nah, nah, I got her… just give me time…" Kifo fired another shot, reloaded, then stood, snarling, firing more rapidly.

Uvuli was dangerously close, and Kishindo was ready to pounce the second she got to within striking distance. Kifo still had a hundred yards, though, and several seconds in which to end the hyena's story suddenly—thus, he stopped firing, and started to aim.

The hyena pounced

His reticle found its way to her collarbone

He fired.

She… vanished.

Kifo blinked, lowering his weapon several degrees. Kishindo moved forward, replaying the last few seconds to herself. The demon had fired, that was certain, but then… something had happened.

There was blood on the ground where the hyena had been, just a moment ago, but there was no corpse. And, Kishindo noted, when Kifo had fired, her vision had blurred in a strange, supernatural manner, just for a heartbeat.

"Did… did I get her?" Kifo asked, uncertainly, even as he sniffed at the air, attempting to detect a scent that simply wasn't there.

"I'm… not sure," Kishindo said. "It does look like you've shot her, but—get away from there, Kifo. If you step any farther, you'll be in the Pride Lands.

"Yeah, yeah, my bad, my bad," the demon said, taking an abrupt step back. "So, she got hit in the Pride Lands… does that mean anything? Could the Spirits have bailed her out or somethin'?"

"Unlikely," Kishindo said, suspiciously, "but possible. And, given that it seems like it's the only possibility… …doesn't matter. You got Sarabi… feeling any stronger?"

"Hell fuckin' yeah, I do," Kifo replied, smiling widely. "This was a very, very good decision, Kishindo. Now," he said, putting on a dignified accent, for some reason, "let's away, dearest, before the authorities arrive."

The lioness shook her head with a sigh, rolling her eyes, though she complied, setting off at a brisk jog to the northeast. The demon kept up easily, humming to himself, still caught up in the rush of killing his first lion.

"The White Sands," Kifo said, savoring the taste of the words in his mouth, grinning. "I'm gonna have me some fun in the White Sands."

* * *

Roderik was good company, Akane and Aoi quickly found out. Apart from being a wise and thoughtful leader, he had a very, very long lifetime of stories to tell, and wasn't at all reluctant to share them with the newest additions to his pride.

"When I was a cub," the old lion said, "in the Land of No Return, which you call the Unexplored Regions… a mandrill traveler walked through our territory. The pridesmen stared at this stranger… but he kept on walking… until an old lion stopped and challenged him.

"'What are you doing here? Asking for trouble?' the old man said. The traveler was astonished. 'What do you mean?' he said. 'I am not looking for trouble. I have no weapons—no stick, no magic—I have nothing!' 'But that's just what I mean,' the old lion said. 'By walking without a weapon… you are inviting an attack!'

"There's a lesson to be learned there, young ones," Roderik said, glancing at the two white lions. "You are constantly surrounded by enemies and threats—there is never an excuse for letting your guard down. You see?"

"Of course," Akane said, "I don't understand one thing about your story, though."

"What is it?" the old lion asked, curiously. "I thought it was very straightforward."

"That's not it," the blue eyed lion said. "It's just… whenever we had a traveler in the White Sands that couldn't give us a good reason to do otherwise… we'd kill them on the spot."

"Then," Roderik said, after a moment, "there's a lesson there, too. Have a sense of honor about you."

"Now the story makes sense."

A few moments of relative silence passed. The loyalist Nomads were moving quickly but quietly, so as to avoid detection and attack from the Black Army. They intended to simply sprint past the Falme, so as to avoid confrontation by the aggressive, dangerous pride that lived there.

Akane and Aoi were rather amazed by the amount of endurance the Nomads seemed to display. The lithe, muscular lions moved for hours at a brisk pace without any sign of exhaustion or discomfort—whereas Akane and Aoi were struggling to keep up after the first hour had passed.

To pass the time, though, Roderik spent a great deal of time teaching Akane and Aoi this and that; little details about living and thriving in a non-desert climate. From time to time, the rest of the Nomads would offer their own advice, but their leader had been around long enough to know most everything about everything—or so it seemed, anyway.

For her part, Aoi had learned, to a degree, how to maximize her rare gift. She received premonitions more often, these days, and was starting to figure out how to decipher their subtle messages better. Mostly, though, the visions she received were of danger, all around, from everything; the weather, topographical features, random beasts. There seemed to be less peril in the direction of the Pride Lands, though—so the young lioness was glad to be going in that direction.

One night, she dreamed that the next day, her newfound pride would meet someone—a stranger. She mentioned this to Akane, as they woke up, and then, both former White Sands members went to Roderik with the information. The old lion at first seemed confused. As the day wore on, though, he seemed to slowly piece things together, eventually arriving at a conclusion.

Then, all at once, he stopped.

They were in a marsh, albeit one not at all similar to the miserable landscape in which Freak had fought a practical dragon so recently. This terrain was brighter, more active, more alive—but it didn't make sense…

"Welcome to the Hub Forest of the East," Roderik said, before taking in a deep breath, then exhaling, smiling. "We'll be safe here, for some time. Everyone… eat, rest, drink, but keep your eyes open. I'm not entirely fearful of an attack, though such is quite possible… but we don't want to be caught by our visitor with our trousers down, do we?"

Moments later, the Nomads were either on the hunt, sleeping, or, in the case of the many mothers of the large pride, cleaning or nursing their young ones. Akane went off into the swamp, rather cautiously—the first moment his paw dipped into the cool, green-tinted water, he jumped back, explosively, hissing… until he realized that he was unharmed. The blue eyed lion then glanced back at Aoi, in a questioning manner, before moving on when she shook her head no; she wasn't interested in doing some exploring. Not then.

The old lion was resting, lazily peering over his pride from time to time. Aoi took his side, and, after a moment of trying to work things out for herself, spoke.

"I don't understand, Roderik," she said. "The Hub Forest of the East… this place doesn't make sense."

"How so, young one?" he replied, turning towards her, grizzled mane shifting.

She paused for another moment, looking around. The entire surrounding territory was only different from the Falme to the south by a complete lack of suitable grass lands—it supported little viable prey, for a lion, and so, had gone unclaimed for generations. Furthermore… this part of the Land of the Spirits, though not quite a desert, certainly didn't experience its fair share of rain.

"How… there's a swamp here. Where does the water come from? We're in the middle of nowhere!" Aoi said suddenly. "And… 'The Hub Forest of the East'… why is it called that? There aren't any trails that lead here or back, we're not near any sort of trading routes…"

"You're very wrong, actually," Roderik said with a gentle smile. "There are a great many paths from all over the Land of the Spirits, and beyond, that lead to this very point. You just don't see them, Aoi, because you're not looking hard enough."

The lioness gave the leader of the loyalist Nomads a strange look, before carefully peering over the landscape again. She saw nothing… but decided to have her other question addressed.

"Then… where does the water come from?" she asked. "We're in the middle of a desert…"

"An underwater stream," Roderik said simply. "Several of them, actually.

"This also explains why their convergence is called a hub. Do you understand?" the old lion said, grinning.

Aoi blinked. Then shook her head, smiling in a confused, skeptical manner.

"But that doesn't make sense," the lioness said, head tilted. "After all… no one uses water to travel!... right?"

The Nomadic leader just laughed, and turned, watching the swamp in front of him. Not for long, though. Because it was only after a moment, or so, that a being last described several thousand words ago appeared.

Perhaps you don't remember her name. In case you do, though, here it is: Adhabu.

* * *

The Desert had never exactly been the place to be, so to speak. After all, it was only weeks' travel from the Pride Lands, and it didn't really offer any great advantage to its dwellers… save, perhaps, for the fact that they could remain certain that they'd never be invaded—after all, who, besides Israelis and Palestinians, would fight over a scorched land incapable of supporting life in any significant size?

Of comfort to its pride was the assumption that, if nothing else, they had one another, and always would. No matter how many endless days and nights passed without water, or food, or a break in the monotony of the endless merge between sand and sky, they always had at least one thing: family.

After Sikia was killed, though… this no longer held true.

Allow me to take you, now, to a land plagued by a generation of constant, relentless war. A land whose masters had no hope of producing heirs or offspring at all; a land where a day with a word spoken between its dwellers was a rare day indeed.

The Desert certainly wasn't the place to be.

The sky was clear, blue, and transparent, that day. There wasn't a cloud in it, so the rays of sunlight that beamed down were so bright and hot that even the stenotopic lions that had lived there for their entire lives were panting, gasping, short of breath.

They hadn't had a drink of water for over a week.

How, then, did they live, you ask?

It's simple—as strange as it may sound, water is not the only source of water in the Desert.

Perhaps I'm being unclear. But the way the lionesses' muzzles had been dyed blood red, semipermanently, should leave no doubt in one's mind as to how they obtained water.

Shindani had followed Samehe's departing orders—she had never harmed a hair of Adhabu or Msaka's fur. She hadn't abandoned them in combat once, despite what they'd done to her sister—but she hadn't forgiven them. And she didn't plan to.

She didn't really look at them, either. Or speak to them. They all knew the routine, by now—get up, fight, rest, hunt, eat, drink, fight, sleep, then rinse and repeat. Days ran together, as shapeless and indistinct as the plethora of rolling, shifting dunes that defined the Desert. And, after so, so long, Adhabu and Msaka had stopped speaking to one another, as well. They simply had no reason to, and due to the fact that Shindani blamed each of them for her sister's death… they both felt equally responsible for it. They weren't even sure, now, who it was that had killed Sikia.

There was no hope, but no sadness, either. The lionesses merely accepted their fate—like Samehe, they were going to grow old fighting. They were never going to give up, they were never going to find love or a real pride, again, and when the time came, they would die like she had: with honor.

Their existence was Spartan to the core. When they ate, it was on the flesh of their enemies, for the most part. They kept their dens—now separate—clean and in good repair. From dawn to dusk, they worked; there was no pleasure and there was only the minimum amount of rest necessary to sustain such a brutal lifestyle.

There was no escape.

None of them had ever so much as set foot outside of their territory, save for when they made incursions into the Wet Forest—and these occasions were increasingly rare, due to their sudden drop in manpower and a brutal but effective eugenics program that gave their enemies a new generation of stronger, smarter, faster warriors.

What else was left for them, though, but war? This was, after all, all they knew. They were used to fighting. Why change—why leave? And, imagine, for a moment, that they decided that flight was better than fight. Where to go? How to decide? No, the lionesses' best, their only option, was to stay and do everything they possibly could to obtain victory.

The situation in the Desert had reached equilibrium. Msaka, Adhabu, and Shindani all knew their places, and did their work without complaint or resentment. By essentially brainwashing themselves, they felt little sadness—they merely shut their minds off to the possibility that life could be better, somehow, somewhere, for even them.

A paradigm shift in their thinking, though, could be caused by even the slightest fracture in the world as they saw it. And the appearance of three determined, but vitally _happy_ females was a very significant event indeed.

* * *

Dusk was the only time of day that the Desert was really bearable for outsiders. When the Sun was out, it was too hot—and when the Sun went down, so did the temperature.

Now, though, at dusk, when the sky was layered with various shades of blue, magenta, and orange, the climate was quite bearable. Granted, it wasn't exactly fun to clamber up and down dune after dune with little sense of direction or destination, but they had good reason to do so—they believed that the Desert Pride lived, and, therefore, needed to be contacted.

Their paws made little noise as they moved, lightly, over the coarse, ever-shifting Desert sands. They moved at a good rate, and maintained a thirty yard spread, in order to minimize chances of sighting anything noteworthy.

Though they'd been in the Desert for the better part of five hours, now, the Pride Landers hadn't seen… anything, really. Not a single pugmark, not a plant, nor tree, nor animal or insect of any sort. It was depressing, on one level—but the trio couldn't help but be filled with a sense of awe. Despite the mawkish taste that collected in their maws, due to airborne sand, the Desert was an environment as stunning as it was foreboding. Endless miles of curved, heaping dunes as far as the eye could see and then some; empty, cloudless skies… this certainly wasn't Kansas—the Pride Lands, that is.

Nala and Kiara rather blended in, due to their tanned coats. Shenzi was well camouflaged in the shadows of the ubiquitous Desert dunes, but this was of no consequence. There was nothing to see, much less threaten the trio.

"So…" Kiara said, after having her fill of the silence of the Desert, "when do you folks think we'll see the Desert Pride?"

"Folks?" Nala repeated, in a somewhat confused tone, before shrugging. "I'm not sure. There's still a lot of the Desert left to cover, I think. We don't… exactly… know that much about this region," the lioness admitted. "We haven't had any reason to care about it for as long as I've been around."

"And back when I was a cub," Shenzi piped up, as the three females converged, to share conversation more easily, "the Desert didn't mean much ta us, either. It was just sorta… there, y'knowwhatI'msayin'?"

"Yeah, I guess," Kiara said. "We need to stop this isolationism bullsh—uhm, that is…" the younger lioness winced, somewhat, at the reproachful expression on her mother's face. "Whatever. I'm a big girl, now, and technically, _I'm_ Queen of the Pride Lands. So I can curse all I fu—all I want!"

Shenzi snickered at that, as Nala managed to hold a grave, serious expression on her face.

"So you can, daughter. So you can. Just don't forget that no matter how old you become… I'll always be your mother."

* * *

Shindani had never had a particularly wide emotional range. Back in the day, she occasionally experienced slightly varying degrees of satisfaction, disappointment, and a few others—generally, though, she was brooding, silent, solitary.

With Sikia, however, a very big part of her had died as well. She could hardly remember feeling anything but anger and determination, now, and couldn't imagine how her already diminished emotional capacity could shrink further, though, she knew, it was happening day by day, at a not altogether slow rate.

In comparison to what she had been, Shindani was a shell—nothing more. What she might have become if left alone is something that can only be speculated about.

Her vocal chords had weakened from lack of use. When she did speak to her compatriots, it was in monosyllable—she scarcely had the ability to construct full sentences, or even phrases. Not that she cared, though. There was nothing that needed to be said, not anymore.

Exhausted from a long day of fighting, the lioness walked, alone, northwards. Msaka was out hunting, and Adhabu was completing the day's last patrol along the southern edge of the Desert… or, rather, the southern edge of their territory. They were losing their home faster than they ever had before. In fact, at the rate they were going, there would simply be no Desert left to fight for within a year.

Taking note of this, Shindani was is a bad mood, even by her standards. Her motions were sharp and unnecessarily rough, as she trudged her way back to her den; her claws were outstretched despite the fact that there was little in the Desert that would could be gripped for better traction.

The domed, sloping dunes of the lioness's homeland meant that those who didn't want to be seen in the Desert often weren't. To avoid detection, one merely had to keep low and listen, avoiding any approaching sounds without attracting attention. Even the remainder of the Desert Pride had been taken by surprise, several times, by flanking enemies—even posting a lookout on a high dune was of little utility.

Freak's "everyone is a threat" motto had taken root in Shindani's mind—or, to be more precise, it had _uprooted_ Shindani's mind. Everything strange to her in the Desert was a dog or reptile, period—which meant that anything unfamiliar to her was a direct threat to everything she stood for; one that could only be removed using violence.

Was she insane?

The Lion Sheikh believes so. This isn't to say that we should feel no sympathy for her, of course. Rather, it's worthwhile, at least, to entertain the possibility that her failure to deal with her sister's death in a positive way, after so much time, had taken its toll.

Regardless—Shindani was a loose cannon. Of course, she was no danger to her pridemates, and, even more obviously, she was an immense danger to her enemies. Her brutality in combat had lent her the nickname that Samehe had once held, as well as several others. She'd always had a mean streak, but since Sikia had gone, this trait was pronounced, even more so by her sudden and unexpected discovery that she had a knack for shattering enemy paws.

There is nothing so intimate as the act of killing—that was Shindani's opinion. Or, at least, that was the opinion she told herself that she had. By fighting hard and constantly, the lioness managed to convince herself that she was leading a full, wholesome life.

It wasn't true, and, perhaps, on a subconscious level, she realized this. What could she do, though? She couldn't face the death of Sikia, really, and even if she was able to, there would still be nothing left for her in life but to die with honor, defending the Desert fanatically, as Samehe had before her.

She was calm, relatively at peace, when she heard something—and froze.

Tail flicking from side to side, the lioness looked up, northwards, eyes fixed on the horizon. Something was coming, she was sure of it—but what was it? How had the enemies of the Desert flanked her so completely, to the point that they were coming from a location so far away, due north?

Clearly, she'd forgotten something or made some mistake that day. Now, though, wasn't the time to dwell on that—it was time to deal with whatever was coming from the north.

Snarling, once, the lioness went over her options. She was alone, but that was alright; she had never fought well when on a team. Without having to worry about attacking the wrong person, she could let go of her conscious mind, allowing it to fall into a state of equanimity, in favor of another, darker consciousness—there was a very, very good possibility that she wouldn't recall any details of the melee that was about to ensue.

If they'd contacted a second later, they'd have been too late, and at least one of them would have died then and there.

As luck, or fate would have it, though, the Pride Landers somehow managed to detect Shindani and react to the Desert lioness's presence before anything _unfortunate_ could happen.

* * *

Kiara and Nala roared, loudly, calling to the distant lioness. This wasn't a threat of any sort—rather, it was an announcement: we are declaring our presence to you. It was a humble but assertive display that would minimize risk for all parties involved.

"What's she doing?" Shenzi asked, squinting. "Looks like she's just standing there. What do you guys think?"

"She's probably deciding what to do… or maybe she's distracting us while her friends surround us, or something. Heh, I just reminded myself of Shujaa; remember the first time he was in the Pride Lands?" Kiara replied, panting, a little, from the loud exercise.

"I don't know why they'd be so defensive," Nala said, tilting her head several degrees. "We'd better stand down, and stay here, so that they can see we're going to do exactly as they say—we are, after all, on their territory."

There was a nod of general assent, and the trio remained relatively static. They did move closer together, somewhat, in a very rough "V" formation, just in case they did have to fight—for the most part, though, they remained passive.

And, after a time, that distant, lone lioness started to approach.

"Alright, everyone… remember, be polite and courteous, and respectful of the fact that we are in their land. However, _do not_ let yourself get pushed around, and for Spirits' sake, please think before you speak. I know I will." Understandably, Nala was nervous. However, a gentle touch from her daughter's nose, on her shoulder, lifted the old lioness's spirits, though she kept her expression passive and blank as their host began her final approach.

Shindani's appearance could be summed up in a single word, at that point in time: savage. This is, perhaps, a slight understatement—her muzzle was dyed with partially coagulated blood, and her fur was saturated with grit and sand and more blood; she hadn't had a chance to wash herself for a few days. Her claws were jagged and cracked and long and sharp, and her teeth were similarly unkempt—the only time she dulled her deadliest weapons was when she struck the bones of her enemies.

The Pride Landers were, very understandably, put off by her appearance. But they reacted more perfectly than could have been expected. They allowed bowed, somewhat deeply, to the Desert lioness, and met her eyes, smiling politely but not presumptuously.

"Greetings, Desert sister. We've come in peace—our purpose here is not military. We are the only ones from our Pride on your territory, and we thank you for giving us the chance to speak to you," Nala said.

Shindani seemed to weigh the older lioness's words, for a moment, before nodding curtly, eyes still narrow and mistrustful. Kiara spoke next, in a somewhat more gentle, friendly tone.

"I'm Kiara, and that's my mom, Nala. We're both Queens of the Pride Lands, and this is Shenzi, one of our good friends. …How are things in the Desert?" the young lioness said, head tilting, several degrees. "Our two nations have been out of contact for a very long time. I hope your pride's doing well?"

At that, Shindani laughed once, a harsh, bitter laugh that hurt to _hear_, and shook her head. Still, she didn't speak, and, instead, continued to stare at the foreigners.

"Oh… that's a shame. But it leads to the purpose in our presence here," Nala said. "We… were wondering, if there might be any powerful swimmers in your pride. If so… we would be very, very grateful to… borrow her, for some time. In return, we're willing to offer unrestricted and permanent entry to our lands for any of your pride members—we're even willing to share our lands with you. You've realized the… progressive degradation of the quality of life in the Land of the Spirits. This hasn't affected us, yet… …greatly. Please take this offer to your alpha, at least… it's genuine, and could be a very good decision for your people," Nala offered.

After a few more moments, Shindani spoke for the first time. Her voice was low-pitched and husky, raspy from a lack of use, every bit as brutal and threatening as her appearance and demeanor overall.

"Can't do that, I'm afraid. Got no alpha," she said, hardly registering the looks of shock on the Pride Landers' faces. "He died a long time ago, when I was a cub. There're just three of us left… but yeah. We do have a swimmer. You can meet with her when she gets back… Follow me."

With that, she turned, heading back over the ridge of a nearby dune. After looking at one another for a moment, the Pride Landers came to a conclusion, and followed, albeit at a distance. They hadn't exactly ruled out the possibility that Shindani was insane—in fact, that, to them, was quite a likely possibility, and a good explanation for her eccentric activity.

Still, they weren't willing to make such judgments so readily. So, as they moved off seemingly towards just another bit of the middle of nowhere, they kept silent, until Nala asked a relatively neutral question, carefully gauging the Desert lioness's reaction.

"So… how are things in the Desert? There are only three of you; what happened to…?"

"Died," Shindani said. "All of them. Samehe, Sikia, the males, everyone else… they all died. And Shujaa left… I dunno where he went."

"Ah."

"Wait, what?!" Nala said suddenly, jumping around to face the Desert lioness. "How do you know Shujaa?"

"He fought here for a good few months, that's how," Shindani said, disinterestedly, before her eyes narrowed. "Wait… how do _you_ know… ah… he lived in the Pride Lands for a while, didn't he?"

"Yeah… so that's where he went, after he left…" Shenzi murmured, mostly to herself. "Wait… he called himself Shujaa when he got here?" _"Talk about ego…"_

Shindani shook her head. "No. He always called himself 'Freak'… Shujaa's a name we all came up with, a while ago…"

"That's… an interesting coincidence," Nala said. "You see…"

It took some time to explain the entire situation to Shindani. Several times during the process, the Pride Landers questioned the wisdom of trusting a stranger so completely like this, then decided to worry later. Quickly, it grew dark, though little time had passed—Shindani accepted their story with few questions and no interruptions.

When there was nothing left to say, though, Kiara looked around. After dark, the Desert was no less inhospitable or ominous than it was during the day—it was black and silent and expansive, and, without anything to hold onto the heat of the day, quite cold, as well.

"So, uh… when's this swimmer of your's getting here?"

"She shouldn't be long. Just like Msaka… we'll have enough meat to share, if you're hungry…"

That was a lie. But the Pride Landers realized it, and politely shook their heads, explaining that they'd eaten earlier—that was true.

Shindani wasn't smiling yet, but as they waited for Adhabu and Msaka to return, her expression was less harsh, less cold. She even engaged in idle conversation with the other lionesses, and, for the first time in a long, long time, groomed herself out of desire, not necessity.

The huntress came into view moments later, hauling a large gazelle along. She paused, still distant, ostensibly wondering who the strangers in the area were, before resuming her approach. When she was finally close enough to speak, Shindani curtly introduced the Pride Landers, then looked away as, again, the story was told. It was blatant that there was something between the two lionesses, but no one pried—it wasn't their place.

There was another wait, a shorter one, before Adhabu arrived. The dark-furred lioness's voice was more gravelly and low-pitched than it had been just months ago—like the other Desert lionesses, she'd suffered from the lack of communication. Greatly.

But, as was the case with Msaka and Shindani, she slowly—_slowly_—started to open up. To talk.

There was still a lot of resentment between the Desert lionesses, and that likely wasn't going anywhere for a time. But when the Pride Landers met them, it was, perhaps, the start to a long, painful, but, hopefully, eventually successful healing process.

* * *

(Sorry for the slow update. Things will be better in the future, hopefully.)


	12. Oblivion Imminent

The Lion King: My Name

Chapter 12: Oblivion Imminent

* * *

(I'm sorry for taking so long to update My Name. I've been quite involved in black operations on Io and Europa—derp, I shouldn't have said that.)

* * *

He wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but he was pretty sure that whatever it was, it had resulted in his death.

Death.

He wasn't entirely sure what that was, either. But no one was—heh, now that he thought of it, he probably knew more about death and dying than most did. After all, he'd died once already, when he had still been a human; he'd come close to dying again with startling frequency after he'd become a demon—and now, it seemed, there was nothing he could do now to stop his fate.

He was bleeding, and heavily. He must have been shot up severely, because he didn't believe that anything had gotten close enough to him to attack him in any other manner—though he could be wrong. There were so many hostiles, and they hadn't exactly been far off when the engagement had started…

He couldn't breathe easily. He was gasping, shallowly, through his own blood, and it felt that there was a significant weight on his chest that was further constricting his airflow.

All of this was so. And yet, Kifo didn't feel himself drifting away, or falling, or doing much other than lying there in severe pain and exhaustion. He would die, soon, but it seemed that he had minutes of suffering and anxiety to go before that finally happened.

He heard sobbing—soft, nearby—but it wasn't his. It wasn't his because he was too exhausted and injured to cry.

Kifo tried to sit up—a searing pain shot through his abdomen and he fell back down. So, he tried to turn his head, at least, to see what was going on—and he could see something behind him, just at the very edge of his peripheral vision—but what was it?

Like Charleton Heston, Kifo would only give up his gun when it was pried from his cold, dead fingers. He was neither cold nor dead yet—and so, he was still armed. He willed his fist to close—his fingers tightened somewhat around the familiar handle of his machinegun, but he didn't have the strength to lift it up.

He shut his eyes—and then he took what was surely the last leap of faith in his life.

"Kochai."

The sobbing abruptly stopped.

"Don't worry… I'm still here." Kifo groaned, then, almost too quietly to hear—but that didn't change anything. As he'd said, he was still there.

There was a sound of brief, rapid motion just out of his field of view, and a second later, the young tigress was directly in front of him. She seemed shocked, though Kifo couldn't be sure—she was so close that he couldn't see her expression properly.

"What is it?" he grunted. "Something on my face?" He tried to sit up again—and this time the pain was so severe that for a full ten seconds, he couldn't even think.

"N-no, big brother Kifo," Kochai said. She seemed to have calmed down a little bit—the pale blur of motion that had suggested that her tail had been lashing around until then had faded. "But I have never seen you like this before… you look a lot like big brother Raj."

"You know, you don't have to address me like that… "big brother Kifo" and all. I do have a name, after all." Almost immediately, Kifo regretted saying that—because he didn't have a name, not really. …Well, he _had_ a name, probably; he just couldn't remember it for the life of him.

"Big brother," Kochai said slowly, a long minute later, "I did not know… that you were also a human…"

That revelation was shocking. Kifo's eyes opened wide—but he resisted the instinct to stand up immediately and confirm what Kochai had said. He remained prone, though after a moment of Herculean effort, he lifted his neck up and managed to look down at his chest.

Huh. That was interesting—Kochai was right, he was a human. There was no mistaking it—no longer was he a dark, musclebound warrior—now he was as he had been for most of his existence. He was quite thin, borderline frail, and pale. How Kochai had recognized him at all was a miracle in itself, but Kifo didn't question it.

Kochai was now checking him from head to toe—everything about him was normal for a human; at least, a human covered in blood, much of which was his own, and injured, and dying. She used her somewhat diminutive paws to attempt to put pressure on Kifo's many wounds—but it was useless. Half of his internals were ruptured, and how the demon managed to cling to life even then was beyond miraculous.

Kochai's behavior changed, then—Kifo noticed it. For a moment, she simply stood back and looked at him, perhaps sadly—then she sat down next to his shoulder and rubbed the smooth bluntness of her head against the side of Kifo's face.

"You were very brave today, big brother Kifo… before everything ended, you fought so hard. You saved me, big brother Kifo… thank you." She moved forward somewhat and lay down on her side with her face against the human's.

What Kifo felt then was unlike anything else he'd ever felt in life or death. He felt his mouth go dry in a way that didn't seem possible, considering that blood was still flowing down his throat—and for a long, long moment, he was speechless. The soft, warm feeling against his flesh didn't change, but for as long as he could, he felt it, analyzed it, enjoyed it—and dared consider that perhaps, after all, his existence would not vanish out without any satisfaction or happiness whatsoever.

"I could have done a lot better," he murmured. "…Maybe not today. But before… and before that." His mind, inexorably, looked back over the dark times before Freak had defeated him—he'd done so much evil in so little time, and before that… well, it couldn't be said that he'd did anything truly terrible, but he'd never justified his own existence, not even to himself.

He coughed, spraying blood all over what few patches of pale, unmarred flesh remained (and all over Kochai, too—but she didn't flinch or leave him).

Now, it seemed, just as he was starting to feel—anything, really—his time was up. Fate, it could be said, was cruel—but Kifo did not think so. Rather than feeling anger at the fact that his existence was ending, he felt gratitude, of all things—for a long moment, he tried to figure out why before he realized that he was simply very, very happy that Kochai was still at his site.

Kifo rasped—he had minutes left at best. He concentrated, hard, and after a few seconds he was able to bring his hand up and place it on the sleek cream orange tufts of fur on Kochai's ruff. With trembling fingers that were now largely out of his control, he stroked the kitten, or attempted to—he didn't have enough energy, enough control…

There were footsteps, then—approaching footsteps. Someone big was coming, and fast—Kochai noticed it and so did Kifo. The boy tried to lift his gun; he wasn't going to let the final thing he saw be Kochai's death—

"Big brother! You're back!"

Somehow, Kifo knew exactly who was coming. Kochai didn't need to say his name—the awe, pride, and affection in her voice were impossible to mistake. From its position several inches in the air, Kifo's gun fell, for the last time. He'd overexerted himself and torn his pectoral and bicep all at once. His vision started to blur, but Kifo did not allow himself to pass out or fade away—not just yet.

But he couldn't stop his eyes from failing to focus. The sound of the li-tigon's approach increased in amplitude as Freak got closer—Kifo couldn't hear anything less significant than that. He was too tired.

"You killed him… …is it over?" There was no way that Freak would return with his task unfinished—but Kifo had to know without a shadow of a doubt that the Master of darkness was dead. He had to know that the cause of everything bad that had happened in the past months had been rooted out and exterminated—so imagine, then, the relief that flooded the boy's mind when Freak answered.

"He's dead," the li-tigon affirmed in a curt, gruff, attack of a voice. "It's over. …What happened…?"

Kifo could picture Freak tilting his large, scarred head in just the way that he always had, although he couldn't see it. His vision, now, was too blurred for much more than vague colors and shapes to be inputted into his mind—regardless, he grinned, resisting the need to cough again.

"I was… surprised," the boy managed to choke out. "Surprised… big time. I… jumped out of my body, see?"

There was no laughter. There was little humor—apart from the flash of liveliness that passed over Kifo's face, it was unlikely that Freak, or Kochai, or least of all Freak's brother felt anything akin to amusement. And yet, that answer tied everything together in a way that a more serious response could not. Kifo's existence had started out with black humor—and, it seemed, it would end with the same.

Kifo felt a force against him—he didn't know what it was or if it even existed, in the physical sense, but it was definitely there. Almost alarmed, he tried to look around—but it was useless. He allowed his eyes to fall shut as he lay back and resigned himself to his fate, whatever it was.

He was being pulled, for certain, though he still wasn't sure how it was happening. There was silence, for a moment—then Kochai spoke, from a position so close and yet so far away.

"Big brother Kifo… I'll never forget about you. I'll think about you every day and I shall also pray for you for a whole year, yes?" She touched him, then—but Kifo didn't know how or where. He was being pulled quite powerfully, now; it took conscious effort to resist.

"Means a lot to me, Kochai," the human murmured. The world was ending—things were collapsing around him, replaced with darkness, static—and something else. The world was ending, but something else was replacing it—was it possible—was he going back?

Kifo felt fear, then, but not of death. What he feared was returning to the life he'd know before—he didn't want to; he'd absolutely rather die—he had to stay. He tried to pull against the ground, rapidly being yanked out from underneath him—but it was useless. He was going back to the city.

His mind raced—there had to be something he could do. There had to be something—and then Kifo remembered. He remembered his name.

It wasn't particularly exotic, nor was it special on its face in any other way—but it was his own, personal name. He knew his name…

With that knowledge came a revelation. He'd survived—in a manner, at least—for months without even knowing who he was. When he got back… what was stopping him, what was holding him back? There were obstacles, no doubt—but he had lived without his name for _months_. He could defeat self-created foes—he'd already defeated the crushing, terrible lack of personhood that had turned him into a demon.

It would not be easy, and if Kifo's end goal was simply self-validation, it might not have been worth it. But he had work for him, waiting at home—important work. He'd fought to the breaking point for beings he'd only known for several hours of waking time, after all—by comparison, he ought to fight for the rest of his life for his own human brothers and sisters.

"Kifo… …good luck… Fare well."

That was Freak's voice. How he heard it was a miracle in itself, since, just then, he felt that he was between worlds—outside of one but not quite yet in the other.

"Me?... I'm not Kifo." He grinned, then—how?—and cracked his neck. "My name is Jake."

He let that sink in, for a moment—then spoke in a tone far more calm and sincere than the somewhat cocky, overconfident smirk he'd previously employed. "I'll… see you guys later, alright? Maybe not in this life… but I will see you again, Kochai… you too, bro."

He thought, briefly—but nothing remained unsaid between them. So, he simply smiled—and let go.

There was motion and there was noise and light and confusion. The boy was stretched out, chopped up and compressed and then rearranged—and then, with an audible pop—he was back.

* * *

There was rain. Rain, darkness, cold—and there was screaming. There was also blood, although not much in comparison to the amounts he was used to seeing—and there was pain, too. There wasn't much, but there was enough to focus on and grasp and use to pull himself up and out of the darkness—

He fully came to his senses a moment later. He was on the ground, with his gun in his hand; he was bleeding, he was hurt, but he was also vitally, functionally alive.

There were lights—there was noise. There was also smoke and pollution and a thousand other scents too subtle and indistinct that he was unable to differentiate them—and there were also alarms.

Times Square, New York City—it was well-policed. Even then, squad cars and officers were approaching fast—there was no time—he had to go.

There were people—there were a hundred shocked faces in the dark gray of the city. He looked over them all, and very nearly felt hate—but he clamped down on his emotions and got to his feet.

There was more screaming. He slipped his gun into his waistband and held up his empty hands—but the screaming continued even after he started to run.

Shouts, authoritative and loud in nature, followed him—but bullets, fortunately, did not. There were too many people around; there was too much noise, too much light, too much dark, sound, presence and confusion for anyone to dare take a shot—he had a chance. He had half a chance to get away.

And so he ran.

He ran fast and he ran hard. First, he parted the screaming crowds, but in time, he was just another face in the darkness—just another lone man in a sea of a thousand lone men. He was bleeding, a little, and disoriented still—but he was alive.

He looked to the sky and felt water run down his face, but he did not close his eyes. Above there was grey; all around him was gray—no. No, wait a moment—something was happening, something was changing. The rain was slowing down—it was stopping right there, in front of him, and the Sun was coming out of cloud cover. The light was not bright, nor was it particularly pleasant—but it was there, and it had the opportunity to grow.

He looked down and simply stood, for a long moment, before he started to walk to a destination that even he did not know—that was right, really, it was. He didn't know where he was going, or how he was going to get there—but he did know, now, that he no longer had to fear forever being in the darkness. Now, he knew that he was the master of his own fate—and that whatever happened to him was of his own making.

He continued to walk, then, for a long, long time. He had many thoughts—some were related to the Land of the Spirits, and the Pride Lands, and the war, and the friends that he'd made and lost—but mostly, he thought about the future. His life would not be easy, that was almost guaranteed—but that didn't matter. He had killed hundreds of powerful fighters in a land distant and locked off to the outside world—he could surely justify his own life, if only to himself.

He felt some hope—not much, but some. He had hope, then, but neither direction nor purpose, but, soon, he'd give himself both. But for now, it was cold and he was fatigued from two lifetimes of hardship—he needed rest and he needed time to think.

He looked around, his pale eyes gleaming in the subdued, late afternoon light of the city. He then upturned his collar, stood up straight—and started to go home.

* * *

(Epilogue will be co-released with Freak's epilogue. Look forward to it, guys.)


	13. Epilogue: A World to Win

The Lion King: My Name

Epilogue: A World to Win

* * *

(This is My Name—there will be darkness and there will be swearing. But no more delays, fellas—read on.)

* * *

"All I need you to do, sir, is to fill out this form—_then_ I can leave." _"And trust me—I want out of here a whole Helluva lot more than you want me out."_

"Shit suckin'-ass, bitch-ass… gimme that—"

Grumbled, incomprehensible swearing rapidly dissolved into glaring and sneering, but he was used to it. It wasn't that he'd had worse—but he'd experienced behavior like that on an almost daily basis for months.

"You lucky that the cops out there, motherfucker. I'd smoke your ass, bitch."

That comment made him grin.

"I don't think so, sir. I really, really don't…" He'd stepped forward, then, with alarming alacrity—in about a second his face was right in front of the other man's, and although he had to angle his head upward uncomfortably to make eye contact, he saw fear, raw and blatant on the other man's face. And so he stayed there, for a moment, with a hand flickering at the side of his waist—and then he stepped back again.

"Have a nice day."

At some point, he'd taken the papers from the man's hand. Now, he reviewed them, briefly, before simply turning and walking out the front door. If a parting insult or threat was thrown after him, he didn't hear it—and so he simply entered the cold landscape outside and zipped up his jacket.

A brief nod to the squad car parked at the curb let the two officers inside know that everything was alright. They would have left, then, but as they started to pull into the road he held up a hand and approached.

It started to rain, then. His jacket had no hood, so he simply upturned the collar and hid the papers under the sheer nylon cloth, next to his body and walked more rapidly. A minute later, he was leaning over and speaking calmly, but urgently to the two older men inside.

"Tell the Sarge to leave me alone; I can handle myself. And there are a _lot_ more important things for you guys to do—I saw the news this morning about a shootout at the projects... Took the department twenty minutes to respond—what's going on?"

The responses were predictable: excuses and highfalutin explanations of procedures and rules and regulations that had to be followed, et cetera, et cetera ad infinitum. In the end, he simply shook his head and waved them off. By then, it was raining quite heavily—and they were in a neighborhood known widely as one of the worst in the area—but he wasn't offered a ride. He was left to walk home alone—but he wouldn't have had it any other way.

After all, this was his city. He wouldn't be scared into altering his life decisions by criminals.

And so he started to walk. It would take him at least an hour to get back, by his calculations—he could have taken the sub or a bus, of course, but that just wasn't his thing. Being in a vehicle had never felt quite right, not since… a long time ago, anyway.

He might have to make an exception pretty soon, though. It was starting to rain _hard_—whereas previously it had been easy to navigate the area, in just moments, visibility had dropped to twenty yards at best. He couldn't hear much, either—the white noise of a thousand drops of water striking the ground and the buildings all around him drowned everything else out, and that was without the wind. Powerful gusts kicked up every few seconds, forcing him to stay still, at times, or risk being knocked off his feet.

He winced, then—placed a hand at the side of his head. Even after so much time, that self-inflicted injury still acted up…

He grinned. Times had changed, hadn't they? Just a few years ago, he'd been at the bottom of the barrel… but now, he felt like a person again. It was true that he was still alone, in many ways—he had no real friends, for example, and he certainly had no girlfriend—but he could go around the city with a smile on his face for however needed one.

And now that he thought of it—he had made a few of his dreams come true. He had his own place, now, in a decent part of town, and he was doing with his life precisely what he'd wanted to every coherent moment of his childhood.

Most people would never understand him, but that was okay. He had justified his existence to himself, and that was all he needed to do.

Life was satisfying, for the most part. But there were times—like then, when he was walking home in the rain with just darkness and old memories for company—that he longed for existence in the Pride Lands again. The rolling plains, the towering trees… the little rivers…

He missed the Pride Lands. He really did, even though there was a certain beauty to the city itself. Although many buildings weren't built to be aesthetically pleasing, as time wore on, the owners and customers and residents did do their share to make their homes and businesses presentable. Apart from that, he was always struck by the amount of cooperation it took to make everything happen.

Violence was a problem, and so was a slow decline in business ethics. There were other problems, too, but he had to prioritize—and violence and dishonesty were, in his opinion, the greatest threats to the fabric of civilization at that point in time. Without trusting the other guy not to stab you in the back, literally or figuratively, you cannot get anywhere—you simply can't. Without honesty and safety, nothing was possible.

He'd done his level best to bring both necessities back to the bleakest, worst parts of the cities. He'd had his successes… and he'd had plenty of failures. Were his efforts anything more than a drop in the bucket?... now that he considered that, he had to admit it to himself: he was probably accomplishing almost nothing.

He breathed in, slow and deep, and then exhaled just as heavily. Then he blinked—and looked around without seeing anything except for grayness of varying shades. Silhouettes of buildings were possible to discern, barely, and the black before him and to the sides suggested that he was at an intersection—but apart from that, he had no idea where he was. He wasn't familiar with that part of town and there were no signs anywhere that he could see.

He was starting to get soaked through his jacket. He held his papers a little tighter against him, for all the good that would do—and gritted his teeth.

Cellphones these days universally had GPSs. He really ought to have invested in one… months ago.

Even more useful than the GPS feature, of course, was the ability to make calls on foot—calls to anyone. Coworkers, superiors, pizza joints for when he was just too damn tired to cook—and, of course, 911. He'd never needed the cops before, but that afternoon he just might.

The squeal of four tires locking into place and grinding against the tar underneath them made him turn, on the ball of his foot, while his hand dropped to the side of his waist. A van raced by him, then, before stopping at the far side of the intersection—he forced himself to squint through the rain and make out that the brake lights were on; the bright red haze cut through the rain and wind just enough to blot out his ability to see anything else, like who or how many were getting out and moving toward him.

GLOCK 19—that was what he carried. It was what he'd carried ever since that fateful day, years ago. He carried it mostly to remind him how far he could fall if he wasn't careful—but there was also the slight benefit that it had the ability to save his life if he needed to. He was no longer an eight foot tall killing machine—his pistol was the most violent weapon system that he had.

But it had its limits. It only held fifteen shots, and thugs in that part of town had, of late, taken to wearing body armor that a normal 9mm load couldn't quite crack through. Normally, he could adapt and use a failure drill, or simply go for head shots right off the bat—but it was raining far, far too hard for any human being to be able to hit a small, moving target at a distance with just a pistol.

This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. He drew his gun and prepared to fight for his life—when, through the rain and the wind, he heard his name being called.

He lowered his automatic, then, and blinked. Then he answered, with a one-word response: "Yeah?"

There was laughter, then, and perhaps some conversation—he didn't get a word of it. In a heartbeat, though, he was in fight-or-flight mode again as a tall, broad-shouldered figure approached him at a rapid stride.

He raised his weapon and lined up for a shot. Calming his breathing, he considered what would happen after he fired—he'd probably take fire from some other angle, from some unseen foe, which meant that his best bet was to pick a direction and run as fast as he could. The other man's head danced past the sights of his automatic—and then he froze.

"Sam? Is that you?"

"Damn right that's me—Sam Jackson!"

In a second, his gun was at his side. Then, it was tucked away, safely back in its holster just in time for the distance between the two men to close. And when they were close enough to see one another clearly, his face split in two with a smile.

The other man was a year or so older than him, but they couldn't be further apart in terms of appearance. While he was an inch or two shy of six feet in height, with pale skin and a slim build, Sam was at least six-seven and dark, and at least three hundred and sixty pounds of overlapping muscle and fat. Just then, however, neither man saw differences—each saw himself in the other, and that's why for a full two minutes they stood there, in the rain, shaking hands and rapidly asking and answering any number of questions—how are you, what have you been doing, what are you doing out here in the rain in such a dangerous part of town?

He was soon offered a ride—gladly, he accepted that, and a moment later he was in the back passenger seat of an old-model Ford minivan. Sam got in the driver's seat, of course—but the passenger's was occupied by a woman that he did not recognize. But she too was smiling, and shortly extended a hand out toward him.

"Jake… I've heard so much about you. It's nice to finally meet the man behind the legend."

He grinned, of course, somewhat sheepishly. He was not what could be called antisocial, and yet, he still didn't quite know how to react to people he didn't yet know. Sam quickly turned around, however, positively beaming—and introduced the unfamiliar woman as his wife.

This was surprising news—especially for Jake. He'd known Sam, and the last time he'd seen him those years ago, he'd been struggling to fight off charges for multiple murders and armed robbery. That was tough for anyone to do these days, considering the new, stiff-faced prosecutors that the city had hired—but a man with previous convictions for assault and battery, drug possession, weapons violations, and any number of misdemeanors had _zero_ chance of walking out of the legal system under the age of ninety.

And yet here Sam was—in a suit and tie, in a vehicle that he'd bought and paid for, with a woman that he would neither sell nor send away the next morning. Jake's highest expectations hadn't placed Sam anywhere near this level of achievement—not even close.

"How long has it been, brother? Five years?" Sam asked.

A few seconds of quick recollection later, and Jake nodded. "Just about, yeah. You look like you've done okay for yourself, sir—congratulations."

The response Jake received, then, was not verbal. Sam simply smiled, before turning forward and getting onto the road again. The conditions were absolutely terrible—visibility had reduced further still, and if Jake had been outside, just then, he would have been soaked through his jacket, completely.

"Damn, Jake, seeing you made me realize… I don't know how I got here," Sam admitted, as they slowly drove onward.

"That's not good. I'm new to this area, and I don't have a GPS—"

"Naw, man—I mean here, in _life_, not this neighborhood."

"Ahh…"

Sam's wife grinned, then, although neither her husband nor Jake did. An inability to recognize certain forms of humor was something they shared apart from difficult pasts.

"Like I was saying… I don't know how I've done it. I got off all those charges… don't ask how. It's a _long_ story. Point is, I walked out of the courtroom—broke, no job, no contacts, and with a thick rap sheet. I didn't know where to go, or what to do—I got about two minutes from robbing a bank, when I got to thinking about you."

He stiffened in his seat at that. It wasn't that he'd told Sam how he'd hit his epiphany, immediately after committing suicide—that was a secret he'd take to the grave—but he grew concerned by nature. One of the lessons he'd taken home from the Pride Lands, after all, was that everyone was—or could become—a threat.

"That point in my life, right then… it was the lowest, that's for damn sure. I thought I'd had it hard before, but…" Sam just shook his head. He seemed to have a tough time continuing to speak—but then his wife reached across the brief distance between them and set a hand on his shoulder.

"I thought about you… how you said that when you hit rock bottom, you realized that you could only improve from there—and the only thing stopping you before was _you_. You said stuff like that to me a _lot_, back in those days—but it didn't really sink in until I was where you were.

"I got myself pulled together. Went off of drugs and drinking cold turkey… I had to check into a rehab clinic, and it was Hell on Earth, but it was worth it. After that, I wandered around for a couple days… then I started to work a little, part-time shift at Goodwill. After that, every day was a struggle, but I did it—and now I have a job as a bouncer for Café 42 in Manhattan… I got my own car, my own apartment, and my own snookums."

Like many of the Lion Sheikh's readers, Jake winced at that final word. Pet-names… he'd never understood them at _all_, and that one was particularly mushy-gushy. At least by wincing, he didn't have to see Sam and his wife share an Eskimo kiss—all right, I'll stop now.

"I'm glad to hear you've done so well for yourself—"

"No, no, no, no, man. I didn't—I got myself together because of _you_. If I hadn't met you, bro, I'd be in a gutter somewhere… or jail, or a cemetery."

That was probably true. Members of Sam's demographic in the area were plagued with short lifespans of crime and unimaginable poverty—Jake had only seen so much of it after years as a social worker, and it sickened him to the core.

"I'm… glad to have helped. Really," he replied, sincerely. "I don't get to talk to old cases much… but it's nice to see that you're standing on your own two feet, Sam. It… I don't know why. But it means a lot to me."

Sam nodded in an understanding manner—after that, there was a moment of companionable silence. The rain was letting up, somewhat, and that gave Jake the opportunity to see that they were approaching a major road. From there on out, he could find his way home without trouble.

"So what about you, bro? You told me you were in your dream job—so I know better than to ask what you're doing these days. But… how are _you_? I'm sorry—I gotta know. I was a kid back then, and dumb, crazy—but I could see something in you, bro. I ain't sure if it's fixed yet… so you tell me. How are you doing?"

This was a question that Jake had never been asked—not even by himself. It shocked him into silence—he looked away, a terse expression spreading across his features.

How _was_ he doing?... he didn't know, exactly, but he did know that he wasn't anywhere close to achieving the level of happiness that Sam had. He was still almost brutally alone, and brief bouts of depression and near-suicidal thoughts struck from time to time. And yet, he too was standing on his own feet—shakily and tenuously, at times, but he was still his own man. He was still stable, and he still remembered his responsibilities as a living, thinking person.

He'd gone for a few moments without answering, he realized. And so he turned to Sam, slowly—and smiled. That was all he trusted himself to do. Anything more than that… he might give himself away. People might be able to forgive him for trying to kill himself, and intending, for a very long period of time, to take many of them down with him—but if he _ever_ said a word about his second existence in the Pride Lands, someone would come and take him away.

"I'm glad I got to see you, Sam. I got a hard job… I almost never know if I'm doing it right or not. I guess I did right by you… I'm this stop."

That wasn't exactly true. He was still miles from home and it was still raining hard, but he had to go. He didn't know why, but he just had to. It couldn't be that he was jealous of his old case—that couldn't be it at all.

"All right, brother…" Sam said that skeptically, but he pulled over. Jake made to leave, but before he did, Sam reached back to shake his hand again—and this time, they maintained contact long enough for Jake to look into Sam's eyes for a long moment.

He hated doing that. He wasn't sure why, but it just unnerved him—and so, shortly, he looked away again.

"You stay safe, brother… and keep your head up. I don't know too much about you, but I know enough—you can do anything you set your mind to, man. Just… realize that, and it'll all be good. That's how it was for me."

"Yeah."

Jake's expression was almost fierce by then. He realized it—and decided that he couldn't explain that, nor respond to any questions or statements made from this point on.

He opened the van door. Stepped out. After a moment, he turned over his shoulder and said goodbye to Sam and his wife.

Then he walked off in the rain, alone again. He was cold and he was hungry and in some ways, he was still a little sick. But he was standing on his own two feet—and he was _walking_. Maybe someday he'd learn to lift his head up and look at the world not with a sense of something to live up to, but with a sense of satisfaction and achievement.

He carried nothing from the Pride Lands but lessons. In time, he'd have to forget about the past and seek justice for himself. When he didn't like the truths of the world he inhabited, he'd have to change them. And whenever he felt alone, really, truly, completely alone, all he had to do was to remember that he never really was. There was one another, and then another again, just, exactly, the same as he was.

* * *

(If you haven't read the epilogue to Freak, then I suggest getting to that posthaste. If you have, well, I said everything that I had to there.

Look for future work from me in the future—even now, I've got another somethin'-somethin' cooking up that should be released relatively soon. Apart from that, I hope you enjoy my Christmas present to you, and take a few moments to remember a great thing that happened in the Middle East a long time ago that's celebrated today.

And so, for the last time in The Lion King: My Name… this is the Lion Sheikh of fanfiction, formerly known as -Mujahid… see you next chapter!)


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